


Playtime

by RebeccaOTool



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Babylock, Capture, Dark, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, Hurt, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, Kidnapped, Mental Breakdown, Sci-Fi, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Torture, Trauma, it is not ours to question why, or possibly magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:58:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 26,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebeccaOTool/pseuds/RebeccaOTool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty doesn't want Sherlock dead; he wants him broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Minor Series 3 spoilers. Uses a tiny bit of information from 'The Empty Hearse'. Alternate timeline, as this starts at the end of 'Reichenbach Fall' and goes from there.
> 
> You know those fluffy little fics where Sherlock is turned into a child and John swoops in and everything is okay? Yeah, this is the opposite of that. Don't say I didn't warn you.)

“I almost had you believing in Richard Brook, didn’t I?” Moriarty mused as Sherlock looked over London, heart hammering. Which of the thirteen options was it? He had to text Mycroft soon.

“The only way they stay alive is--”

‘If I die, he wants me to kill myself, he’s destroyed my life, my suicide would be the capstone.’ Sherlock braced himself. He didn’t want to implement Lazarus, but if he had to--

“If you submit yourself to me.”

The words were so far off what Sherlock was expecting, his mind went momentarily blank. “What?”

“It’s simple, Shirley.” Moriarty smiled pleasantly. “You come with me, no fuss, and do what I say.”

He had no idea what is happening. Why would Moriarty go to all that trouble, destroy his life, just to make sure Sherlock went willingly? His cooperation? That was the reason for all this? 

Well. He’d never find out unless he went with Moriarty.

“What happens if I go with you?” His mind flew, but there was no way he could start texting right in front of Moriarty. 

“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary. You vanish, a presumed suicide after you crimes had been discovered.” Moriarty shined his nails disinterested. “Dr. Watson will look for you. He won’t find you. You’ll be whispered about like Jack the Ripper, presumed dead, nothing proven. A legend in modern times. And they all live.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “What will you do with me?”

“That would be telling.” Moriarty smiled wickedly. “It doesn’t really matter, now does it?”

“I suppose not.” Sherlock saw John on the streets below. His phone vibrated in his pocket.

Moriarty retrieved the phone. “I’m sure it would have been a lovely parting, Shirley. But we can’t have Dr. Watson guessing, can we?”

Sherlock tore his gaze away, a chill running up his spine. 

Moriarty pulled the battery out of the phone, dropped it to the cement, and smashed it under his heel. “Time to go.”

Sherlock followed him, placid as a lamb. Once they were safe, he’d find a way out. Find a way to contact John. He could figure this out. He’d get back on track. It was just a matter of time.

He followed Moriarty down, through the hospital, to the basement. He was unsurprised to see Moriarty open a nearly-invisible door in the floor, leading down to a small walkway above the Tube. Why shouldn’t Moriarty have access to the subway Tube? Sherlock had used these tunnels himself a time or two. 

“If I was to ask where we were going--”

“Just to a flat I keep in the suburbs.” Moriarty’s voice was bright, cheerful. Too much. He was excited. This was something he’d been working on for a long, long time. “Don’t worry Shirley. I have a private car. No one will recognize you.”

Sherlock hadn’t been worried about that in the slightest. “And then?”

Moriarty shivered in delight. “And then it’s _playtime_.”

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued....


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had been sedated some time on the ride to the flat. It must have been a toxin in the air: he hadn’t eaten or drank anything Moriarty had offered. He’d promised cooperation, but that didn’t entail being a complete idiot. Now he was in a very strange room with Moriarty.

It might have been the room the children were kept in before Moriarty took them to the old candy factory. There were two small bed, covered in old blankets and recently disturbed layers of dust and cobwebs. Equally ancient toys were scattered untouched on the floor. The paint had once been a cheery yellow; it was faded to the color of old piss. A small, doorless washroom was attached, also sized for a child. The tub was the most clean thing. It had been recently used.

Moriarty watched him observe the room. “I know, it’s an utter disaster. I’ve been meaning to fire the maid.”

Sherlock stared down at him. “I promised to cooperate with you, Moriarty. How long are you going to draw this out?”

Moriarty approached him, smiling his shark’s smile. “This will hurt. You’ll live.”

And then there was a needle was buried in Sherlock’s leg, discharging into his flesh. Sherlock bellowed at the sudden pain. 

Moriarty withdrew the empty syringe, eyes flashing. “The scientists at Baskerville would kill their children to get their hands on something like this. The formula is years ahead of them, Shirley. Hundreds of years, maybe. And you get to experience it! I almost envy you.” 

“What does it do?” Sherlock dropped heavily onto the small bed. It creaked under his weight. It was meant for very small children: the kind barely out of their cribs. 

“Wait and see.” Moriarty watched him intently. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out shortly.”

Sherlock doubted that; whatever was in the syringe was making him dizzy. It was hard to concentrate on anything. His body felt strange. Light. Mm. Was he floating? How interesting. He leaned back onto the small bed, limbs dangling over the sides, brushing the dirty floor.

Moriarty loomed over him. “Tell me how you feel.”

Sherlock struggled with the words: his tongue was suddenly thick. “Light.”

Moriarty giggled. “Perfect. Perfect! Go on.”

Sherlock tried to sit up and the room spun. He lay still and closed his eyes. “Room’s spinning. Off balance. My equilibrium. Center of…”

“Gravity.” Moriarty prompted, gleeful. “Right. That’s right Shirley, good.”

Sherlock lay still for a long time, unable to report anything. He was floating in space. Spinning. Dropping. At some point he curled into a ball. He could hear Moriarty giggling every once in a while. He made a few more attempts to speak, but nothing came out but half-formed moans and grunts. His throat hurt.

His bones hurt. Skin. Eyeballs. Everything. He couldn’t muster a scream. Just moaning. Crying. Tears wetted the musty bed cloths. And for a while, he vanished into the haze of pain. Stopped worrying about John. John was alive. Safe. He’d done it. No matter what else they said, John was safe. He knew Sherlock wasn’t a fraud. Molly. Mrs. Hudson. Maybe Lestrade. They knew. Mycroft. Wasn’t for nothing. Even the plans. Foiled. Not for nothing.

He held onto that though until the pain was gone. He’d lost all sense of time. When he came back to himself, he had no idea how long he’d been gone. It may have been a day. No longer. The room was dark. It had no windows. Someone shut off the light.

Strong arms lifted him. He whimpered and struggled, but it was just for show. He couldn’t overpower whoever was holding him. Not until he had food and rest.

There was blinding light. He closed his eyes to it. It hurt. He moaned.

“Shh, shh.” Moriarty. He was there too. Damn. Sherlock only heard one set of footsteps. His senses were still disrupted. He tried to open his eyes, but blinding white light forced them shut again.

Then, oh, blessed, relief! Warm water. Warm water soothing his body. It hurt a little less. Every muscle ached. He slipped into the water, deep, deeper, nearly slipping under. Large, strong hands stopped him. Good thing. He may have drowned otherwise.

Someone dragged a washcloth over his face. He twisted aside, murmuring protest. This just earned him another chorus of ‘shh’ from Moriarty. 

“Mowiawty. Stop it.” His voice was wrong. His tongue felt strange in his mouth. He was still fighting off the drugs. 

“Just relax Shirley. You can sleep soon.” He used his Richard Brook voice, syrupy and sweet. 

Sherlock squinted his eyes. The light was still bright, but he was beginning to get used to it. Washroom. Obviously. Moriarty above him. No sign of the one who had carried him in. Large tub. He’d been moved to a different room. The tub in the child’s room was only four feet long: too small to accommodate him.

Except...except the walls looked the same. Dirty. He turned his head a little. Same piss-yellow bedroom beyond. He saw his clothes strewn on the floor, in front of the tiny bed. He turned his head back. 

Moriarty grinned madly. “Do you understand yet? _Do_ you?”

“I...no.” He understood. But it was impossible. 

Moriarty reached into the cooling water and drew Sherlock up. Sherlock struggled, weaker than before. His energy was all but gone. He struggled to keep his eyes open, keep the information flowing in. It was a losing battle. He couldn’t fall asleep. Not like this. 

The man in the cracked mirror had Moriarty’s grin, his stubble, his now soaking-wet dress shirt. He held a small boy with dark curls, and frightened blue-green eyes. A toddler. A helpless, useless, lost little child. 

“Why?” Sherlock tore his gaze from the nightmare vision in the mirror to the man holding his tiny form. 

Moriarty’s grin was just as shark-like as ever. “That would be telling.”

Then Sherlock faded away.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

A month. Sherlock had been missing for a month. John hadn’t had a trial. Mycroft got the charges dropped. Not much to charge him with. Getting kidnapped? Not showing up for a few days after? They couldn’t prove he’d aided Sherlock in his apparent escape. 

Then the truth had come out, about Sherlock’s work and Moriarty’s real identity. Too late. And then...nothing. Sherlock and Moriarty just vanished.

“If he contacts me, I’ll advise you.” Mycroft promised. John didn’t give him the same promise. It was Mycroft’s fault that Moriarty was able to do all he’d done. If he thought John would go running to him at the first sign of Sherlock--

Of course, he’d need a sign of Sherlock first.

There was just nothing. So, John reasoned, there were only two reasons. Sherlock wouldn’t contact anyone for reasons yet unknown or he _couldn’t_ due to being a prisoner.

Or dead.

Neither of these were good options. And John’s search had led nowhere. Some of Sherlock’s ‘die-hard’ fans sent him sightings. All rubbish. All thoroughly checked on. Just in case.

And here he was, at a desolate flat on the outskirts of an all but abandoned London suburb. All because some fan saw a man who may have been Moriarty. He’d been at a shop buying choc-ices, and the fan had followed him here. John doubted Moriarty was the sort who ate sweets or did his own shopping. And yet, here he was. What else was there? The empty flat? His job? He didn’t have another shift until Monday. 

So, here he was, skulking around this flat that didn’t even look inhabited. At least he wouldn’t get the cops called on him if nobody was about. Well. In for a penny, in for a pound. He jimmied the door open. 

The front hall was no less desolate than the surroundings. There were dusty pieces of of furniture and brick-a-brack, but nothing from the last twenty years. So, either it was abandoned, or there was a (possibly dead) older person living here. Great.

John made his way quietly down the hall, not hearing anything unusual. There were some footprints in the dust, but that didn’t prove anything. Could be drifters. Teenagers.

Down the hall, a door creaked open.

John crept forward, heart hammering. It was probably nothing. Probably. But if it was something...anything…

He crept down the hall, following the footprints. A door at the end of the hall was open. 

It was a child’s room. Clearly old, clearly in need of repair. There were two small beds. One was undisturbed. In the other the rumpled covers lay over a very small lump. Thoughts of Sherlock fell away. Someone was keeping a child in this place? Someone had left a child _alone_ here?

John looked around, for confirmation. Not an adult in sight. That didn’t mean one wasn’t in the home, though. The house was dirty, not dangerous. It looked abandoned, but that didn’t mean it was. Nothing concrete if he acted to defend him. 

Nothing but his twisted gut. 

A snuffly sob from the child cemented his resolve. This wasn’t right, and he’d be damned if he pretended otherwise.

“Erm...hello.” He put on his best ‘talking to frightened children’ voice. He’d had plenty of practice at the clinic. 

The snuffling stopped immediately. Strangely, the child didn’t get up or ask who was there. John approached the bed.

“It’s okay.” He reached out to pull the covers back.

“Go ‘way.” The voice was high and frightened. A very young child. One who was only just putting sentences together. Two, maybe three years old.

“I won’t hurt you.” John crouched down.

“Go away.” Still frightened. But terribly insistent.

“Where’s your Mummy and Daddy?”

“I SAID GO!” The covers were tossed violently back, and John finally saw the child. Small boy, two years old, very pale, masses of dark curly hair. The eyes--

And here, John’s world crumbled.

The eyes were the only thing about a person that never changed much. They were nearly full-sized at birth, which is what made children so wide-eyed and innocent looking. And here, in this child’s face, were Sherlock’s eyes. He’d know them anywhere. The anger. The fear. He had only seen these things in Sherlock rarely, and would never forget.

“...How?” John’s voice sunk to a whisper.

The anger dissipated from the child’s face instantly. “John? I...it’s not a twick?”

A million thoughts flashed through John’s mind, but one stood out clearly: he had to get Sherlock out of here. It didn’t matter how this had happened. The fear in Sherlock’s voice. The childish mispronunciation, and the brief look of horror as Sherlock heard it too. That was what mattered. 

John scooped him out of bed. He was only clothed in purple pajamas. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Something stabbed into his neck and he cried out in pain. 

Sherlock cried out in terror. “Stoppit! Stoppit!”

“Sorry, can’t.”

Oh shit. _Shit_. Moriarty. That cheerful little lilt. John spun clumsily, Sherlock still in his arms. Moriarty stood behind them, an empty hypodermic needle in one hand, smiling.

“Let him go.” Sherlock begged as John fell to his knees. He lost his grip on Sherlock a moment later, but the drop was a short one. Sherlock scrambled to his feet, planting himself between them.

“Shirley, that would be cruel.” Moriarty considered this for a moment. “He’ll be unable to take care of himself. I can’t send him out in the big bad world.”

“Please!” The terror in Sherlock’s voice brought back John’s focus. The world was spinning. “Let him go, I’ll be good, I pwomise, please--”

“Say it right or not at all.” The joviality left Moriarty’s voice. His eyes glittered darkly. 

“Puhhhraaawmis.” Sherlock drew the word out tortuously. 

“Good.” Moriarty’s expression softened.

The mispronunciation wasn’t...It was a perfectly normal developmental stage! A child knew the approximate way words sounded, and the brain went with it as best it could. Moriarty would know this. Demanding perfection was...was…

Whatever it was, John couldn’t focus on it. He fell, hard, to the floor.

“John!” Little hands at his shoulder, clutching him.

“ ‘M alright.” John muttered, trying to keep his eyes open. Ow. Ow. He let them close.

“Don’t fight it Johnny.” Moriarty advised a million miles above him. “It’ll only hurt more.”

John moaned. His body, everything hurt, it was spinning, oh God, he was going to vomit, no, Sherlock, he had to rescue Sherlock, _had_ to…

The world was slipping away. He clutched at it, trying to stay with Sherlock. He’d looked for so long, this wasn’t fair. 

Please. Please don’t go. Not again.

In his haze he heard things. Laughter. Sobbing. Sherlock pleading. More laughter. It rolled over him, and he couldn’t answer or understand.

After an eternity, the pain receded. He was lifted into the air, cradled in a pair of strong arms. He went ridged. He knew whose arms those were. He was confused, not stupid. Deduction. Sherlock must have been so scared when this happened, not understanding. John was terrified, and he _did_ understand.

John trembled as he was lowered into a tub of hot water. No. This wouldn’t, couldn’t, must not happen. The man who’d strapped a bomb to his chest would not drown him. He whimpered and kicked, but couldn’t stop it.

“John, don’t!” Sherlock, no less terrified. “Please, don’t hurt him, I pwom--”

And then John was slipping under the water, Moriarty’s hands gone. He heard a sharp smack and Sherlock’s cry of pain.

“SAY IT RIGHT!” Moriarty roared. 

“P-p-puhhrawwwmis.” Sherlock was stuttering, he was crying so hard. John forced his eyes open. Just beyond the edge of the tub he saw Sherlock cowering on the floor, hand to a reddened cheek. Moriarty loomed over him, face still alight with rage.

“You…” John grated out the word, not caring about the way his voice sounded. The warm water was stealing what was left of his energy. “Did this to...him. Don’t hurt him. _Your_ fault.”

Then Moriarty turned those blazing eyes on him. John shrank back, all but vanishing under the water. Moriarty stood over him, face placid. It wasn’t better than the anger. 

This man was insane. 

“You don’t know the rules yet, Johhny. I’ll let that go.” His voice was cool. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

John squeezed his eyes shut. “Monster.”

He expected a slap, to be snatched out of the water, dashed to the floor. He was drawn gently out of the water and wrapped in a towel.

He opened his eyes, confused, fighting to stay awake for a few more seconds. Moriarty looked down at him, a slight smile twitching the corner of his lips.

“A monster? Oh, Johnny. I am so much more than that.”

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so there will be a bit of skipping around when it comes to time and whose perspective it is. This, obviously, takes place a month after chapter two. Don't worry...the story will get back there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time is jumping around a bit. This takes place directly after chapter two.

When Sherlock woke the first morning, it was all he could do to get himself out of bed. It wasn’t that he was depressed or frightened; he’d tangled himself in the blankets and needed a few moments to get free. His short arms and clumsy fingers didn’t help matters.

He jumped to the floor, eyes darting around the room. Moriarty had cameras in here, no doubt. He was watching Sherlock’s every move, waiting for the opportune time to come back and...and...do whatever he was going to do now that Sherlock was helpless.

His face burned in embarrassment. Helpless. His mind in _this_ stupid little body. It was ridiculous.

Why not paralyze him, if Moriarty just wanted to incapacitate his body? Or even break his arms and legs? Anything was easier to do than this. The number scientists he must have paid to find a way to do this had to have been astronomical. 

It was astonishing, really. If he wasn’t in Moriarty’s clutches, he’d have been fascinated by it. He’d been turned into a toddler, and yet his mind and memories were intact. Amazing.

Sherlock went to the bedroom door, expecting it to be locked. The knob was barely within his grasp: he had to stretch as far as his little body could just to turn the knob. But it did turn. Damn this body. He wasn’t even a meter tall!

Sherlock edged cautiously into the hallway, listening, but hearing no sign of anyone else. The flat was old, and dusty. He hurried down the hallway, though his awful, stubby, stupid little legs couldn’t go very fast. There was probably no way he’d be able to escape, but the more he saw, the more he could deduct, and the greater the chances for a future escape would be. 

Bathroom, stairs, living room, all mostly stripped of furniture. Phone in the kitchen was high above his head, no chance of reaching it himself. Probably not even connected. 

Probably.

‘Maybe if I push a chair over I could check--’

Just then, his stomach grumbled. Sherlock placed a hand on it, a bit shocked. He wasn’t just hungry. He felt like he was starving. How long had it been since he’d eaten? How long had he been knocked out?

First order of business: see if there was anything to eat. Unlikely, but possible. Sherlock opened the kitchen’s grimy ground level cupboards one by one.

“Nothing. Dust. Pans. Nothing.” Was Moriarty just leaving him here to _starve_? He needn't have gone to the trouble of making him a child for that. 

Sherlock opened the last cupboard. A new box of Cheerios gleamed at him, untouched by dust or grime. Sherlock grabbed it and ripped the cardboard open. After a few moments of tugging, he split the plastic down the center, spilling a third of the box onto the floor. He ignored it, aside from a small twinge of annoyance. Stupid little hands and their lack of fine motor skills!

He ate a few handfuls of cereal and his stomach began to quiet. Only it left him _dreadfully_ thirsty. He groaned. This body’s ceaseless demands were getting to him. The water faucet was just as unreachable as the phone. There was a single rotted chair in the kitchen. It didn’t look strong enough to bear his reduced weight.

But he didn’t have many options.

Sherlock pushed the chair to the sink, and carefully began his climb. It creaked alarmingly, but held until he climbed onto the counter. He turned the faucet handle and was rewarded with a cool stream of clean water. He cupped his hands under it and drank. 

How much nourishment did a child’s body need? He wasn’t sure. It wasn’t information he kept at the ready in his mind palace. Maybe if he thought on it for a while he would find information from when he was a child and use that. Granted, before the age of four his memories were somewhat spotty. Mycroft had often gloated he remembered everything with clarity to the age of two.

Mycroft. He must have realized all thirteen plans had gone awry by now. Surely he’d stop at nothing to find his missing little brother. And John--

No. John knew nothing about the plans. He’d be even more worried.

Sherlock turned off the water and wiped his hands on his pajamas. Behind him, the phone was in reach. Sherlock walked to it, knowing it wasn’t going to work, or just route him to Moriarty, or some annoying thing. But he had to at least try. If it was broken in a certain way, he could fix it. Perhaps.

He pulled it off the hook, and the dial tone squawked at him. 

He nearly dropped the phone in surprise. This was impossible. It had to be a trick. 

He dialed Mycroft’s emergency line: Mycroft was the only one who would recognize his voice in this state. If he called John, John would think it was a prank, or just a confused child. Mycroft might may have heard of the experiment. This seemed like a Baskerville thing.

To Sherlock’s horror, it directed him to voicemail. Impossible! Mycroft _always_ answered this line. He was so startled, he almost forgot to speak with his brothers’ recorded voice prompted him.

“Mycwoft!” Oh God, the speech impediment. That was back too? 

To be fair, it wasn’t so much a speech impediment as much as a normal developmental stage that nearly all children went through, but still. Horrifically embarrassing, it had been the bane of his young years. He already sounded like a child, did this have to be added on as well? 

“Mowi-Mowi-James has done something to me.” He gave up on the villain's name. Too many ‘r’ sounds. “I’m in an old abandoned flat, alone, and...and….”

And what? He had no idea where he was. 

“He’s going to come, now that I’ve made this call.” He swallowed hard. Mycroft might be able to trace this. It was a landline after all. “Tell John I’m alwight. Sort of.”

He waited a few more moments, trying to think of something else to say. 

“Just huwwy up and get me.” He replaced the phone on the hook. Was that Mycroft’s actual phone? Moriarty had probably set up a fake line to sound like it. 

Sherlock dialed John’s number. It too went straight to voicemail. He hung up, not bothering to leave a message. Stupid. Stupid. He’d been stupid to think such an obvious ploy might be real. The voicemails were faked. Obviously. Moriarty had listened in, probably giggling with Moran.

Well, since it wasn’t a real call, that meant Moriarty wasn’t racing here to stop him. He climbed down. He could explore the rest of the flat.

He walked all around the small apartment, but found nothing of interest. Old furniture. Old knick-knacks. The windows were glass blocks that emitted little light and no sound. No escape that way. The doors outside were barred and locked. He might have been able to pick them, if he could get to them. If he had a small bit of metal. There was something to do: scavenge anything useful. 

He went into the master bedroom, but aside from a broken nightstand and a stained mattress, there was nothing. The kitchen and the child’s bedroom were the only places that seemed to be used at all. 

Sherlock growled in frustration. This wasn’t fair! He’d planned so long, and then Moriarty had to do something completely insane. 

He rubbed one eye, suddenly realizing how tired he was. Climbing and investigating the flat used up what little energy he’d gathered. He stumbled back to the child’s room and laid himself on the bed. A short rest. That’s all he needed. Just a little time to rest his eyes.

It was dark when he woke. He felt hungry again. And there was no sign of Moriarty.

Sherlock felt a cold chill go down his spine. Why hadn’t Moriarty come back yet? Why wasn’t he here, gloating? What was he doing?

He had no idea.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the present.

John woke when he felt someone touching him. He sat up, crying out. He was in the little bed next to Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock sat next to him, face alight with worry. “Are you alwight?” 

So, Moriarty wasn’t around. 

“I’m...” He looked down at himself. He was in bed, dressed in a striped onesie. Sherlock had an identical one in purple. With feet. Jesus. “I’m fine. Kind of.”

And he was about two years old. Closer to three, actually three. He’d always been on the small side.

“I couldn’t stop him.” Sherlock’s voice was anxious. 

John looked back and him and attempted a smile. “I know.”

Sherlock’s expression didn’t change. “You shouldn’t have come. You were safe.”

It was disconcerting to hear so many words coming out of such a small child. Then again, John supposed he looked just as weird. Children of this age were lucky to manage three word sentences. 

“I’d rather be with you like this than home safe wondering if you were alive.” John put one small hand on Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock flinched.

John didn’t remove his hand. A dull heat built up in his chest. “What did Moriarty do to you?”

Sherlock’s eyes slid to the bedspread. “Nothing I haven’t been through befowe.”

John looked to the door. It was closed. “Not as a child, Sherlock.”

Sherlock jerked, eyes wide. “Don’t!”

“What?”

“Call me that. At least, not in fwont of him.” Sherlock swallowed. “He...wants you to call me Shirley. I am supposed to call you Johnny. If he catches us using the w’ong names--”

“What did he do to you?” John drew Sherlock into a tight hug. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“I’ve twied.” Sherlock didn’t break the hug, but didn’t move to reciprocate either. “He locks the doors and I can’t bweak them down! I’m too small.”

“Will he be back soon?”

“He’s unlocking the fwont door now.” Sherlock took John’s hands. “Do what he says. It’s awful, but he’ll hurt you if you don’t. Pwomise me.”

John nodded, chilled. It wasn’t just slaps and shouts. Moriarty had done worse things since capturing Sherlock. “I will. I promise.”

Until they found a way to escape.

Moriarty stood in the door, with two small cardboard boxes. “I’ve brought you something special, boys.”

John heard Sherlock say ‘thank you sir’ just loud enough to be understood. John echoed him, teeth clenched. 

Moriarty smiled approvingly. “I see Shirley’s been teaching you how things work here. Good Johnny.”

John nodded stiffly. Sherlock got off the bed, and looked back at him. John climbed down backwards, hands clutching the bed.

Moriarty laid something out on a low table, just their size. Some chicken nuggets and french fries. “Eat up boys. There’s a big day ahead of us.”

John ate a fry mechanically, eyes trained on Sherlock. His head was down, face hidden behind the wild mass of curls. He was eating, but didn’t seem to care about the food. That was normal enough.

Moriarty watched them as they ate. John felt his skin crawling and struggled to keep eating. 

“Well, I’ve had to modify today’s plan, what with Johnny’s unexpected arrival, but no matter.” Moriarty rummage in a very beaten suitcase he’d brought in, producing two sets of clothing. “We’ll just make due. Won’t we Shirley?”

“Yes sir.” Sherlock’s voice was barely audible. John caught a hint of red on his cheeks. This was mortifying for him, obviously. Humiliation heaped on humiliation.

“Where are we going?” John finished his meal. 

“That would be telling.” Moriarty dropped a stack of clothes at his feet. “Just get dressed.”

John scooped up the clothes and went into the washroom. No door, but he could stand behind the wall for a measure of privacy.

“Honestly Johnny, I don’t care about your little body.” Moriarty sounded amused. “Not in _that_ way. But, if it makes you feel better to change in there--”

“It does.” John said curtly, shrugging off the pajamas. “ _Sir_.”

“The by all means, go ahead. I’ll meet you two at the door.”

John peeked out once he was done dressing. Moriarty was gone. Sherlock was struggling into his shirt, fine motor skills not quite established.

“Here.” John hurried over and tugged it down. 

Sherlock didn’t acknowledge the help. He dropped to the floor and began working on getting his shoes tied.

“I didn’t think they made laced shoes for toddlers.” John began fiddling with his own pair. His fingers just didn’t want to do the motions.

“It’s pawt of his plan. Another way to show me...us...that we’re helpless to do even the smallest things wif’ out him.” Sherlock finished one of the bows.

“To what end?” John whispered, struggling with his laces. They were thick and unwieldy in his little fingers. “Why is he doing this?”

“To bweak our spirits. I think.” Sherlock finished the other shoe. “I...don’t know.”

John finally finished one shoe. It was a hopeless mess, but it was tied. “He’s insane. Maybe there is no plan. Maybe he just wants to mess with our minds.”

Sherlock nodded. “He hasn’t taken me out befowe. He’ll be waiting for us to t’wy and escape.”

“If I see an opening, we’re taking it.” John ignored his other shoe and grabbed Sherlock’s hands. “Okay?”

Sherlock looked unsure. “He’ll expect that. If we don’t t’wy, he’ll know we know it’s a twap. And if we do...he’ll…weact. Badly.”

“Like he does to your speech impediment?”

Sherlock’s gaze hardened. He’d been hoping John would just ignore that, apparently. “Yes.”

“We’ll be smart about it. No running off. No screaming. We’ll get someone’s attention quietly. Somehow.” John couldn’t stand the idea of not at least _trying_ to get away. Sherlock had been in this Monster’s care for a month, and there was no telling what had happened. Sherlock’s strange behavior was probably the tip of the iceberg. He couldn’t let him stay here a moment longer.

Even if it meant only one one of them getting out.

Sherlock nodded. “Alwight.”

John tied his other shoe and grabbed Sherlock’s hand. They walked towards the door together, hearts hammering.

Moriarty stood there, ballcap perched on his head, grinning. “Well. Shall we?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in the past, following the last one from Sherlock's perspective.

Seven days. Seven days since Sherlock had seen Moriarty. Seven days he’d been trapped in this horrible little body. Today he’d finished the last of the Cheerios that had spilled on the kitchen floor. 

He’d tried calling Mycroft, John, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, any number he could remember. Even Mummy and Father. Each went to voicemail. He left messages, sometimes. Just in case. Sometimes he screamed that he knew it was just Moriarty on the other end, laughing at him.

Sometimes he just listened to the sound of John’s voice and didn’t cry. Maybe an actual child would have cried. But he wasn’t a child, no matter what he looked like. 

So he didn’t cry.

He inspected the whole flat the second day. He couldn’t find the cameras. They were there, though, somewhere above his head. Somewhere, Moriarty was watching. Waiting. 

Waiting for him to break. 

The third day he went into his mind palace and tried to find out things about children. There wasn’t much there. His own memories weren’t very helpful; Mummy and Father had botched many things (like making him play with other kids, and making him apologize to stupid people who happened to be grownups), but they’d always taken care of him. He’d never been left alone as a child, or without food, or anything. They’d taken good care of him, and loved him.

So in his mind palace he’d remained. Plotting. Planning. Searching. Emerging to eat and make an occasional call. Just to keep up appearance. Just so Moriarty would think he was lonely and frightened. 

Day seven arrived and here he was, alone, sitting on the kitchen floor, knees to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. He’d found everything about children stored in his brain. No help there. There wasn’t anything to open the locks with. He couldn’t break the windows. He’d tried pounding on the door, but it made his hands hurt. Nobody heard him anyway. So he was sitting. 

Maybe he’d try one more call. Maybe this time he’d sound a little more desperate. Beg someone to get him. Say he was scared and hungry and bored and lonely. Say that this body needed things…needed people. Needed another human. Children needed physical touch, or they died. Hadn’t he read that? Or was that pets? 

That was what he’d do. He’d call and cry and Moriarty would think he was really losing control. Then he’d come and gloat and maybe tell Sherlock what was going on. That was what Moriarty was waiting for; Sherlock to break. So he would just pretend he had. 

That was all.

He climbed the chair, legs shaking a bit. There hadn’t been many Cheerios left. He was still very hungry. As an adult he could go days without food and not notice at all. Now it was barely a few hours and he felt like he was starving. Stupid childish body!

He dialed John’s number. It clicked and he steeled himself. He’d have to cry to sell it. It didn’t matter: Moriarty would be the only one to hear it, and it was just an act. It was fine. It--

“This voicemail is full. Goodbye.”

Sherlock froze. He’d been expecting John’s voice. Not the robotic monotone message. He dialed back, heart hammering. But why should such a little thing upset him so much? It was just a recording. It had to be this body. This awful little body.

“This voicemail is full. Goodbye.”

He tried the other numbers. Full. Full. Full. Full. Full. Full.

He tried John’s again, trembling, weak with hunger and childish emotions.

“This voicemail is full. Goodbye.”

“No! No, that’s not fair!” He shrieked, unaware of the tears running down his face. Unaware of why that robotic voice was the worst, loneliest thing yet. “Damnit Mowiawty, that’s nuh-nuh-nuh-not…”

He dropped the phone and sobbed into his hands. It _couldn’t_ be their real phones. They would have picked up. They would have come and gotten him. Moriarty was just doing this to...to…

I don’t unda’stand!” He wailed, not caring about his stupid speech impediment, or the stupid tears, or even _looking_ stupid in front of his kidnapper. He didn’t care if Moriarty thought he was acting or not. It didn’t matter. He didn’t know what was happening, or why it was happening. There was no need to pretend that fact. That was what mattered. 

Moriarty had outsmarted him. That was the only thing that mattered. 

That was the only thing that _ever_ mattered. 

He beat his fists on the counter, shrieking wordlessly. He understood so _little_. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t...it...it… 

After a while, Sherlock lay still on the countertop. His mind was a vast blank. Now the only thought was that Moriarty had finally done it. He’d outsmarted Sherlock. 

And still, he was alone. 

0o0o0o0o0 

To be continued... 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the present.

John had expected a car to be waiting for them in the flat’s driveway. He hadn’t expected the windowless armored van idling there. Sebastian Moran stared out from the driver’s seat, but made no sign that he recognized the children. Had Moriarty told him who they were? Surely, he must know.

Sherlock’s hand tightened around John’s as Moriarty opened the door. John’s heart sank when he saw why. Car seats. A matched pair of them, belted into the back. Bright pink. Brillant. 

“Up you go.” 

He flinched as Moriarty picked him up and put him into the seat. It was all he could do not to shudder when the belt was buckled over his body. Sherlock was just as quiet when Moriarty did the same to him. John resisted the urge to reach out and grab Sherlock’s hand. He’d hate looking weak in front of his nemesis.

At least, if things were normal he would have. 

John reached out, grabbed Sherlock’s hand, and squeezed. Sherlock squeezed back. John honestly didn’t know if it was a good sign.

“If you boys behave we might stop for sweeties later.” The grin on his face wasn’t sweet in the slightest. John shivered. 

He risked looked at Sherlock once Moriarty’s was seated in the passenger seat, speaking quietly to Moran. Sherlock’s eyes were scanning the van, deducing loads of things John couldn’t begin to identify. Well, at least that was the same.

Had Sherlock done this when he was really a child? Maybe not to the same degree, but surely a bit. It seemed impossible that there was ever a Sherlock who couldn’t look at a person and know everything.

John shook himself. This was no time to think about Sherlock’s childhood. Well. Not his past childhood.

He probed at the buckles with his free hand, but the buttons were much too stiff. His hands, hands that had brought people back to life, hands that had killed enemy soldiers and Sherlock’s would-be assassins, were too small and weak to operate a seat belt.

A faint flutter of panic stirred in his stomach. No. He couldn’t think about what this all would mean when ( _if_ ) they got out of here. Spending the rest of their days at Baskerville, under the hands of scientists who could care less about getting them back to normal, and just wanted to understand how this had happened in the first place. Going back to a flat too big and too empty for two little boys. Living his life over again, growing up again--

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet. “I know where we aw.” 

“Where?” John could spot the tops of office buildings out of his window, but not much else. Sherlock probably had all of bloody London memorized. 

“We’re just outside of Bwomley.” Sherlock whispered. “Heading towards the city pwoper.” 

_Bromley was where the flat had been. Of course Sherlock had figured it out. “Any idea where they’re taking us?”_

“Back towards London. I’ll keep watching.” 

John sat quietly as Sherlock continued to deduce. He toyed with the straps, but didn’t find any weak spots. 

After an hour of sitting quietly, his fear gave way to boredom. John blamed it on his body; there was no way he’d be bored while kidnapped by Moriarty in normal circumstances. Sherlock was looking out the windows, seemingly content. Anyone looking in wouldn’t sense anything amiss. 

Hmm. There was a good point. How to alert people subtly that he and Sherlock were in danger? He couldn’t just scream out ‘This isn’t our Daddy!’ or anything that big. Moriarty would have him carried off in a trice if that happened. And do...whatever he’d done to Sherlock. 

A month. Jesus. 

“We’re here.” Moran’s statement came as the car pulled to a halt. 

Sherlock looked to John, confused. “I don’t know where we aw.” 

John tensed as Moran unbuckled him from his seat. Moriarty did the same with Sherlock, who looked just as frightened as John. This was bad. It could be any one of a hundred places, a den of criminals waiting to see their tiny forms beaten and broken, a scientist to do more experiments on them-- 

Or outside an arcade named ‘Quicksilver.’ 

John stared at it, dumbfounded. Of all the places he’d expected to see, an arcade was the last one one the list. Sherlock looked equally confused. Not good. 

Moriarty smiled warmly at them (Or what a passerby might see as warmly). “Well boys, I hope you’ll enjoy this little holiday.” 

“What are we doing here?” Sherlock spoke slower than normal, making sure each word was pronounced correctly. 

“Well, they’ve a lovely assortment of kiddie rides. Not to mention, Seb is a whiz at fruit machines.” He placed Sherlock on the ground, but held one hand. 

“Whatever game you’re playing at--” 

“Hush Johnny. Just be glad I’m in a good mood.” Moriarty’s voice cooled off. John kept quiet as Moran placed him on the ground, next to Sherlock. His hand was caught in the assasin’s. John twitched his fingers experimentally, and Moran’s grip tightened. No chance of running off. 

Sherlock and Moriarty went in first. John hurried along. He didn’t want Sherlock out of his sight. 

0o0o 

To be continued... 


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock was still on the counter top when the front door opened. He’d fallen asleep there after his tantrum.

“Shirley.” Moriarty’s voice was jovial and light. “I’m hoooome!”

Sherlock sat up, mind racing. There wasn’t enough time to jump off the counter top and hide. He stood up. At least he wouldn’t have to stare up at Moriarty.

Moriarty entered the room, Westwood clad, carrying a large tote bag. Sherlock could see a loaf of bread and some milk. His mouth watered. Damn this body!

“Shirley, you shouldn’t be up there!” Moriarty clucked at him, disappointed. “You’ll fall and hurt yourself.”

Sherlock said nothing, but didn’t move to get down.

Moriarty tucked the groceries away in cupboards high above Sherlock’s head: even with a chair, they’d be inaccessible. Sherlock’s heart sunk; either he would die of starvation, or Moriarty didn’t plan on leaving him alone again.

To Sherlock’s shock, Moriarty scooped him off the counter top and set him on the floor with a chuckle. “There. Safe as houses.”

“Why aw you doing this?” Sherlock kept his tone as level as possible.

Moriarty looked at him curiously. “Hm. You can still talk. Pity. I thought you’d gotten all that out of your system.”

A chill ran down Sherlock’s spine. “You didn’t expect a week of isolation in this body to turn me into a gibbewing lunatic.”

“Not a lunatic. Just a child.” Moriarty sighed. “Well, the doctors said you might need some hands-on work for that.”

Sherlock stopped himself from taking a step backwards. It wouldn’t help. “A child. That was your goal? Just to acquire a child?”

Moriarty gave him a bored look. “Don’t expect me to start monologuing now, Shirley. We have too much work to do.”

Sherlock glared at Moriarty as he placed a few more things in the high cupboards. To his surprise, Moriarty pulled two colorful boxes out of the bottom of the bag. 

“Here we are. A shape cube and a stacker.” Moriarty set the toys on the floor. “Why don’t you take these to your room and play?”

Sherlock stared at him, but said nothing. He wasn’t cooperating with this insanity.

“Shirley, do you really want to test me?” The joviality vanished. 

Sherlock looked away. Physical pain was nothing. He’d been through all types of--

The slap came harder and faster than he had prepared for. The blow fell on his cheek, sending him to the floor. Pain radiated across his face. He cried out. Why had that hurt so much more than he’d prepared for? He knew how hard a man could slap, and God knew he’d been through it before. Why did this feel so much worse? 

Moriarty watched him dispassionately. “Forgot that little body of yours isn’t conditioned, didn’t you?”

“No.” Sherlock hissed, hand clapped over his cheek, eyes watering. He thought he’d prepared, butt it felt like his face was on fire. 

“It probably doesn’t help that the nerve endings are all fresh and new. Food will taste more intense, things like that.” Moriarty, calm again, pulled a can out of a cupboard. “So I suggest you take your toys to your room, Shirley. I’ll fix lunch.”

Sherlock picked up the two boxes awkwardly: he’d go back to his room and think. It was a better option than letting Moriarty abuse him some more. Moriarty turned his back to the tiny detective and began cooking.

Sherlock’s mind flew as he went back to the bedroom. A child. Moriarty wanted to mold him into an actual child? Why? If he’d just wanted Sherlock obedient, there were drugs, or even brain surgery. 

But if he wanted Sherlock a broken mockery of his former self, he was on the right path.

He dropped the boxes to the floor. A simple stacking toy, and a box you pushed shapes into. Perfectly appropriate for an actual toddler. The boxes promised to encourage fine motor skill development, and logical thinking.

So, Moriarty was just heaping insult on to injury.

Sherlock climbed onto the bed, ignoring the toys. Moriarty wanted him acting like an actual child. Why? If he just wanted Sherlock humiliated, turning him physically into a child would be more than enough. The mental break could just be icing on the cake.

Or, it could be part of a larger plan. There were plenty of people who’d love to see Sherlock Holmes humiliated and broken. Maybe Moriarty wanted him conditioned before showing him off.

Then again, if Moriarty planned to take him out of here and show him to others, he’d have chances to escape. 

Which meant it was in his best interest to play along.

With a groan, Sherlock got off the bed and opened the boxes. Even with his motor skills impacted, he easily assembled the toys. It took a bit longer than he liked, but still much quicker than the average child.

It was still not a moment too soon: Moriarty’s footsteps echoed down the hall. Sherlock froze. He wouldn’t be any safer in the bed (or under it, as some childish instinct insisted).

Moriarty was carrying a tray with a bowl of something (smelled like tomato soup, Campbell’s variety, no scent-identifiable poisons), and a cheese sandwich. “Finished playing?”

“I put the things together.” Sherlock tried not to show any sign of longing. After a week of increasingly stale cereal, the soup smelled like heaven. Classic torture.

Moriarty set the food down and inspected the toys. “Perfect. And in record time.”

Sherlock didn’t move towards the food. Something was wrong, but he had no idea what. “You said you wanted me to play with them.”

“Yes, Sherlock, I did. And an actual child wouldn’t have had to have been asked. Nor would they have done these puzzles perfectly, or so fast. They would have played.” Moriarty sighed in disappointment. “My fault for not being clear, I suppose.”

“You wanted me to do it _wrong_?”

“I wanted you to act like a child.” Moriarty lifted the lapel of his jacket and removed something from an inner pocket.

A syringe.

Sherlock didn’t try to run away: Moriarty was between himself and the door. He took a few steps backwards, stumbling, and falling onto his bottom. 

In a moment, Moriarty was on him, syringe pressed delicately to his flesh. One twitch, and he could unload it into Sherlock’s carotid artery.

“You have exactly one chance to do things correctly after this talk, Shirley. No, don’t nod or make any noise until I’m finished. You know what’s in this syringe, of course. More of the serum I injected you with last week. Not as much, of course. I don’t want you to disappear.

“The amount of serum is enough to reduce your body to approximately 2 to 4 months of age, depending on how hard I press. Now, the reason I didn’t use all of it on you the first time around is simple: I didn’t have a free week to watch an infant. But I’ve got loads of free time now. The only thing stopping me from putting your mind in an even more helpless body is whether or not you cooperate, Shirley. It’s up to you.

“Understand what I want from you, even if you can’t understand why: I want you to behave like a normal, obedient child. Not Sherlock in a child’s body; little Shirley, who wants nothing more than to follow my rules. If you do, well, then there’s no reason for me to me to use _this_.

“Break character, however, and I will not hesitate to change you into a helpless infant. And I have been assured that your mind would survive the transformation. Think about that, Shirley. No talking, no real freedom of movement, no information to put into that relentless mind of yours. Just your mind in a useless, helpless body. 

“How long do you think you’d last? A day? A week? It doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t even have the luxury of killing yourself. If you were lucky, you’d go insane. But if you were lucky, you wouldn’t be here, with me.

“It comes down to this: either act like a normal child, or I’ll take away your ability to do anything. Do you understand?” 

Sherlock trembled, unable to force a sound from his throat. His mind was blank with terror, nearly unable to process the threat. Every muscle in his body clenched. 

“Blink twice if you understand and agree. I don’t want you to wet yourself with me on top of you.” 

Sherlock blinked twice, tears flooding his eyes and spilling down his cheeks.

“Good.” Moriarty withdrew the syringe and got off Sherlock. “Then let’s have lunch. You can cry for a bit first, if you wish.”

As Moriarty laid out the meal, Sherlock curled into a small ball, face behind his hands, sobbing.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said this was the opposite of those fluffy fics where Sherlock is de aged and John makes everything okay? Yeah. This is what I meant.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, something a bit lighter. Not fluffy, but not like last time. Enjoy.

The arcade was bigger than any John had seen before. Kids and adults alike played on fruit machines, small rides, animatronic player pianos, and other things he couldn’t identify. Moriarty dragged Sherlock towards a huge boxy thing labeled ‘Rollercoaster Simulator.’ Ages 2 and up. Great.

“You and Johnny have a nice little ride while Seb and I have a talk.” Moriarty lifted Sherlock into the contraption. Moran placed John in the other seat and buckled him in. John looked at Sherlock, trying to make some sense of the situation. Sherlock looked just as bewildered.

Moran selected a ride and pulled a small curtain across the side, blocking out the view of the rest of the arcade. A screen in front of them showed a video of a coaster labeled “Mantis”. The ride turned and vibrated with the video. 

“What the hell are they doing?” John asked as the car ‘rode’ upwards. 

“Mind games.” Sherlock fiddled with his buckle. “Humiliation. Classic towture.”

“He do anything like this to you befo--”

“No.” Sherlock snapped, both hands on the buckle. The car tilted forwards, pressing them into the straps as the car went downhill. “Damn!”

“What are you doing?”

“Escape attempt. We twy it now and fail, their guard will be down later. They’ll think we think it’s hopeless.”

“That’s brilliant.” More than brilliant, it was Sherlock. He was beginning to act like himself again. Thank God for that.

John set at his own buckle as the car twisted from side to side. These were quite a bit more worn than the ones in the car, and unclipped easily. “Your side or mine?”

“Mine.” Sherlock unclipped his belt. “Go as fast as you can, they’ll know if we hold back.”

John nodded and crawled over to his side of the car. The seats were big enough for an adult, and easily accommodated his small body. “And on the off chance we actually escape?”

“We won’t.” Sherlock took his hand. 

They tumbled out of the car, and landed unhurt on the scrubby carpet. Sherlock pulled John to his feet, and tugged him forwards. John raced after as fast as he could, which was still fairly slow. Any second now he’d feel Moriarty’s hands on his shoulders, pulling him back, stopping him--

“Are you two lost?” A woman with a blond girl little larger than they at her side looked down at them with open concern. They’d made it less than ten feet from the ride.

“Um…” John’s mind raced. What the hell could he say? 

“Bad man!” Sherlock pointed behind them, lip quivering. John tried to match the expression. There was little chance this woman wouldn’t buy whatever story Moriarty told her, but they had to keep up the act.

“Where are your Mummy and Daddy?” She crouched down, holding her little girl’s hand tight.

“Gone.” John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hand. “Bad man.”

The woman smothered a look of worry. “I’m going to take you to the front desk. Then we’ll find your Mummy and Daddy. Okay?”

The escape attempt would be foiled there: Moriarty would come claim them, probably with identification papers on hand and everything. And then, hopefully, he’d think their spirits broken, and they’d be able to try again. Hopefully. 

She grabbed John’s other hand and led them to the counter. Sherlock was scanning the room, looking as if he trying to find some other avenue of escape. There was nothing, of course. This place was a maze of lights and electronic noise. 

At a plexiglass countertop stood a plump, grandfatherly sort of man. He peered at the woman over his spectacles. “Come to turn in tickets?”

“I’m afraid not. These two were wandering alone. And--” She dropped her voice “saying something about a _bad man_.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I see. Why don’t I just check the security tapes and see who they came in with. Just a moment.”

The woman smiled at them reassuringly. “What are your names?”

“Scott.” Sherlock blurted before John could even think to give a false name.

“I’m...Harry.” He offered after a moment. Easy to remember, and at least nobody would call him Hamish. 

“And your surname?”

Here, Sherlock opted to look puzzled. Of course. A two year old might have trouble remembering such things. Or knowing what the hell a ‘surname’ was.

But a three year old might know. “Thomas.” 

“So, Scott and Harry Thomas.” She said, Sherlock nodded and took a half step behind John. Helping to establish John as the older brother. John was glad he’d caught on so quickly. Another sign of normalcy. Plus, if Moriarty came over calling them the wrong names, it would rouse further suspicion. 

Maybe this could be more than a failed escape attempt.

After a few minutes, the man came back behind the counter. “Um, Ma’am, I’ve rung for the pee-oh-ell-eye-see-ee. Could you wait with them until they get here? They may want to ask you a question.”

“Yes, of course.” The woman’s face flushed.

John paid little attention. The police? Just because they’d said a bad man was here? And why wasn’t the proprietor paging Moriarty at least? This was getting weirder by the moment.

He looked to Sherlock, but Sherlock wasn’t sharing whatever he’d deduced. His face looked grim, though. Bit not good.

“Scott?” John rolled the new name around for a second, but it sounded natural enough. 

Sherlock continued to ignore him. His nose scrunched a bit; must have been deep in thought. John sighed. There’d be no answers from him until they could be alone for a moment, and speak normally.

“I’m Mrs. Bluth.” The woman finally introduced herself. “This is my daughter, Mira.”

“Hello.” Mira looked at her mother, uninterested in the boys. “Mummy, can I have a token for the Candy Drop?”

“Yes, sweetie, just stay where I can see you.” Mrs. Bluth doled out a few tokens and Mira took off to the edge of her Mother’s sight. “I know. Would you boys like to hear a song?”

Without waiting for their reply, she turned around and dropped some tokens into a player piano. It started up with some old rock and roll song John vaguely knew. He plastered a small smile on his face, and the woman beamed at them.

John pulled Sherlock to a nearby bench, pretending to enjoy the music. “What’s happening? Where’s Moriarty?”

Sherlock looked at John, jerked from his trance. “Isn’t it obvious? He’s left.”

“What?”

“He’s abandoned us. The security footage must show him and Moran leaving the arcade and driving off while we were in the ride. Only reason to ring the police and not even try and page him.”

“But…” John tried to process this information. “Why?”

“I have no idea.” 

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock ate his soup mechanically. It tasted like heaven, but he couldn’t enjoy it. Every movement was tempered. How fast did children eat? How neatly? Not this neatly, surely. He dribbled a few spoonfuls of soup, until it began to wet through his shirt. Moriarty watched him, not saying anything. When Sherlock spilled, he nodded approvingly.

It was all Sherlock could do not to throw up.

“Well, looks like we need to clean you up a bit. Bath time.” Moriarty’s voice went back to the syrupy sing-song, and he nearly pranced into the washroom.

Sherlock forced himself to stand. His legs were still shaking. Imagine not being able to stand or even crawl--

NO. He banished the thought as quickly as it came. He just had to do what the madman in the next room asked. Just do it until John came. John would come. 

He _had_ to come.

This was no longer about who was smarter, or his thirteen plans, or even what Moriarty was trying to do. It was about simple survival. If he wanted to survive, he had to do what he was told and act like a child. 

Moriarty wanted to break him. That much was clear. But when his mind broke--IF, IF it broke, not when, oh please not when--what would happen? What would Moriarty do with an actual (for all intents and purposes) child on his hands that had once been Sherlock Holmes? 

He couldn’t begin to guess.

“The bath’s ready, Shirley.”

Sherlock flinched. He hated that nickname. But he didn’t dare say anything.

He shed the soiled clothing and walked into the washroom. Moriarty was a psychotic criminal, but he wasn’t a deviant towards children.

Not a sexual one, at least.

There was a stepstool at the edge of the tub, so Moriarty didn’t pick him up. Thank God. Sherlock got in, half expecting the water to be freezing or boiling. To his surprise, it was pleasantly warm. A small rubber duck floated on top of the soapy foam. He sat down, and the water reached his chin. There were a few bath sponges, washcloths, and other toys. 

Moriarty watched him expectantly. Sherlock’s mind raced. A toddler would be playing with the toys, surely. He reached out and pushed the duck, which bobbed across the tub a few inches. Moriarty nodded approvingly. Sherlock swallowed and nudged the duck a few more times, increasing the force as his nerves got the better of him. He had no idea how children played, and sooner or later Moriarty would expect something different, how long could he keep this up before--

Sherlock missed the duck, and his hand slapped the water, sending a fine spray out of the tub and spattering Moriarty.

Sherlock froze.

Moriarty looked down at the wet spot and let out a small chuckle. “That’s more like it.”

“...What?”

“I’m not going to punish you for messing up like a normal child would. It just means you’re trying.” Moriarty looked delighted. “Accidents _do_ happen.”

So, the syringe was reserved for him acting like a grownup. Sherlock didn’t for a moment assume this meant he was safe from more conventional punishments. If he acted like a bad child, Moriarty would react. If he splashed again, for example, he might be slapped or even pushed under the water for as long as Moriarty thought fitting.

Sherlock resumed pushing the duck around the tub at a sedate pace. He could just as easily have continued splashing until Moriarty got angry, and discovered the boundaries the madman had set.

If he wasn’t so afraid, that was.

Moriarty left the room for a few minutes, allowing Sherlock a few moments of privacy. He scrubbed himself, trying to forget the feeling of Moriarty’s body on top of his, and how helpless he’d been. _Was_.

There was a fresh set of clothes for him when the bath was over. A striped green shirt and shorts. What was Moriarty’s fascination with stripes?

Sherlock sat in the cooling water, trying to think his way out, and coming to a dead end. Moriarty had snared his body, and now aimed to snare his mind. He was too small and weak to overpower the man, and if he tried to rile him…

The Syringe.

Sherlock climbed out of the bathwater, dried off, and put on the fresh clothing. 

Moriarty sat on the bed and nodded approvingly when he saw the detective. “Very good, Shirley. What shall we do now?”

Oh. Oh, no. Was he really asking? What the hell did children this age do? What did children of any age do? “Um...Watch telly?”

“Telly’s in the shop.” Moriarty’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Anything else?”

“Wead a stowy?” Sherlock tensed. There weren't any books in the house, not that he’d seen. He needed to stall for time. “Build...a...fowt?” 

Moriarty sighed and closed his eyes. “Oh, Shirley. You’re not even trying, are you?”

“I am!” 

“No, you’re not. A child wouldn’t ask: a child would have just started doing.” Moriarty sighed in disappointment. “Well, it’s not bad enough for the syringe. I suppose I’ll have to set up a new rule as punishment instead. Let’s see...I don’t care for your speech impediment. Stop it.”

“Aw you seweious--”

Sherlock’s sentence was silenced with another slap. He rocked back on his heels, but kept to his feet. He cried aloud and tears began flowing. 

Moriarty smiled. “ _That’s_ better. Now: What do you want to do?”

Sherlock struggled to get his cries under control. “Puh-puh-play.”

“Then _play_.”

Still snuffling, Sherlock dropped to the floor and scattered the stacking rings across the floor. He picked up a ring at random and rolled it across the floor. 

Moriarty watched, smiling. Everything was going exactly as planned.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got married on Saturday. That's why this update is late. I understand it's frustrating when a good story is abandoned (both as an author and reader, mind you), but snide comments don't make me want to update. Trying to goad me only makes me want to stop. I'd call out the person who did this, but they didn't even have the courage to put their real ID on their comment.
> 
> To those of you who commented positive things, THANK YOU. I wasn't even going to post this today, but you made me remember why I do this. A big thanks to WHYtheHELLnotBP. You can thank them for this update, as their comment was the thing that kept me from going into a petty snit.
> 
> If you have NO idea WTF I'm going on about, read the comments for the last chapter. Rant over!

John gripped Sherlock’s hand tightly as the two policemen entered the arcade. One was an older officer, bushy moustache, a bit overweight. A grandfatherly type. Probably sent to keep them calm. The other was a younger man that went into the backroom to see the security tape.

It had been a little dumb to hope for Lestrade, he supposed.

Sherlock started blubbing the moment anyone tried to talk to him, keeping up the act of a frightened toddler. John kept on as ‘stoic big brother who’s just as scared’. It wasn’t very hard; he was scared.

The grandfatherly officer took a seat on the bench near the boys, but to John’s surprise, didn’t pay them any attention. He rolled two coins into a animatronic chicken, which promptly cackled and laid a couple plastic golden eggs. He cracked one open and sighed in disappointment.

“Well, I’ve already got this dinosaur. Anybody else want it?” He held aloft a small rubber t-rex. 

Sherlock stopped sniffling and watched the toy with interest. John felt a small chill: He knew it was just an act, but it was far too reminiscent of the way he’d acted around Moriarty. John watched the toy with narrow suspicion: an older child would have been warned of strangers bearing gifts.

“Well, let’s see what’s in the other.” The officer cracked it open and produced a similar toy in yellow rubber. “Goodness me. Another one!”

Sherlock tugged on John’s collar, bringing his mouth to John’s ear. “Get a dialogue going: We need to get our pwints into the system. Mycwoft will see them and come.”

“Scott wants one. Please.” John kept his voice curious and wary. Short sentences, small words. 

“Oh-hoh. Well, Scott, green or yellow?” The officer (Officer Don, John spotted a nameplate) held out the toys Sherlock eyed them greedily and snatched the yellow dinosaur. “Would you like one?”

“Yes please.” John reached out tentatively and took the other toy. Maybe his awkwardness would just seem like a normal frightened child. He wasn’t half the actor Sherlock was. 

Then again, he hadn’t had long to practice.

“My name is Officer Don. I’m a policeman.” Finally, they were getting somewhere. The toy routine probably worked wonders with normal children, but it was just making John impatient. “What are your names?”

“Scott.” Sherlock walked his t-rex across the table, seemingly lost in his own world.

“Harry.” John gripped Sherlock’s free hand tightly. “I wanna go home.”

Officer Don’s eye twitched and John caught a look of mild worry. “I know. Well, that’s what I’m here to do: help you get home. But first, we need to go somewhere quiet and talk. Is that okay?”

John screwed up his face, as if thinking over a very hard choice. “Mummy says policemen are good.”

“That’s right. We help find lost Mummies and Daddies.” Officer Don agreed readily enough.

“Want Mummy.” Sherlock buried his face in John’s shirtsleeve. 

“Okay.” John pocketed the toy and reached out for Officer Don’s hand. They were going down to the station. Then...what? They’d have to keep up this act until their weird fingerprints were brought to Mycroft’s attention.

A stab of fear hit John as he slipped off the bench. What if their prints didn’t register as being the same, due to their being so much smaller? How the hell would they get a hold of anyone then?

This was Sherlock’s plan. If it didn’t work, they’d just do something else. Convince someone...anyone...that they were really adults trapped in these bodies.

‘This is a solvable problem.’ John thought as Officer Don led them outside. They’d find a way to reach someone and explain everything. They’d text Mycroft, or Sherlock would deduce something about Lestrade, or be catty to Molly and they’d see. They’d understand.

They had to.

There was a small black minivan with big windows and a few police logos on it. He opened the side door, revealing several booster seats (not bright pink, at least). He helped them in.

“We’re going to go see my good friend, officer Jamie.” He told them, getting into the driver’s seat. “We’ll talk and then find your lost Mummy and Daddy. Okay, boys?’

Sherlock had his t-rex out and was playing with it, seemingly oblivious to Officer Don. John made a noncommittal noise. Good enough. Officer Don started the car and they were finally off.

He caught Sherlock’s eye. The detective nodded. Things were going as well as could be expected. John wanted to hold his hand again. Remind himself that no matter what, at least he’d found Sherlock alive, if not unaltered. 

Was it only yesterday he’d been at the flat, alone, and a grownup? It seemed like years ago. The pain of Sherlock’s disappearance was still fresh. It was matched by the pain of seeing what Moriarty had made of him. 

They’d need to talk about that missing month. Sherlock wouldn’t want to. But they’d have to do it.

Later.

Sherlock’s playing became quieter and more subdued. John watched as he fought to stay awake, head nodding until it finally stayed down. The car worked the strange magic it held over small children, and Sherlock fell asleep.

John blinked and yawned, surprised to discover he was also tired. It made sense: these little bodies couldn’t do half as much as their adult ones. 

Well. This was as safe a place as any. John wondered if he’d be able to sleep lightly, as the millitary had trained him, or if he’d drop right into the near-comatose state toddlers tended to have.

These thoughts kept him company until he dropped off. Comatose it was.

0o0o0o0o0

to be continued...


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not light. Not fluffy. Not sorry.

It was astonishing how the most nightmarish circumstances became routine.

Sherlock would wake up to Moriarty’s cheerful morning lilts, eat breakfast, and play with a slowly-growing supply of toys, all under Moriarty’s watchful eye. Moriarty fed him regularly now, but Sherlock made a habit of squirreling away anything he could, just in case. So far he’d amassed a cracker packet and several juice boxes. 

Well. Still better than nothing.

The only times he got any sort of privacy was when he was in the w.c., and when he was asleep.

Moriarty was pleased with Sherlock’s willingness to try and act like a proper child. He was only hit very occasionally, when he wasn’t playing, or eating too neatly, or something like that. The Syringe didn’t show up again, except for Sherlock’s nightmares. More than once he’d woken himself up screaming.

Each time Moriarty had been on hand, watching him, and smiling quietly. He never tried to comfort Sherlock after these bouts, which the detective was grateful for. He couldn’t stand that maniac touching him.

There were a few times when Moriarty left during the day; Sherlock was locked in his room. Unsure if there were cameras watching him, he usually napped. Moriarty always came back in a few hours, and never mentioned what he’d done. 

He never talked about the outside world. Sherlock had once asked why he couldn’t come along on one of Moriarty’s trips (putting _just_ enough whine in his voice that he wouldn’t be slapped), and all Moriarty had said was ‘It was boring grownup stuff.’

At the end of his second week (he had a clock and a calendar in his head, of course) Moriarty was in a foul mood. Sherlock did his best to stay quiet and out of the criminal’s reach. 

After the third blow, it was clear that was impossible. 

Sherlock scuttled into his room, but the thudding footsteps followed him. Moriarty’s rage wasn’t going to end anytime soon.

Sherlock held his left arm gingerly. Moriarty had yanked him very hard, and he was sure it was out of it’s socket. Any more blows and he would suffer permanent damage.

Not to mention how much it bloody hurt.

He stood in the center of the room, trembling. There wasn’t anywhere to hide, the closet and the bed were the first places Moriarty would check, there was no point in squirming under the bed.

As the footsteps reached his door, Sherlock dropped to the floor and crawled under the bed. It would only stave off the pain for a few moments longer. He _knew this. But he couldn’t beat down the childish urges and will the pain away at the same time. Something had to give.  
_  
He huddled there as the door opened, good hand clamped over his mouth, tears streaking down his face. He saw the black dress shoes step closer and closer to the bed, stopping in front of it. And paused.

Something deep inside him cried out in joy. The deception had worked, _somehow_ , someway, it really had, and soon Moriarty would go away and look for him elsewhere, everything was going to be alright--

Then Moriarty dropped to the floor and peered under the bed. His rage was gone; now he was grinning wildly.

“Shirley. You really thought you could hide under there?”

To Sherlock’s terror, he realized he _had_. Despite all logic and common sense, the belief that he’d be safe under the bed had won out. The childish notion had superseded his adult mind.

Moriarty read his terror easily. “Come out, Shirley, I’ll pop your arm back in. Wouldn’t do to leave it out of it’s socket, would it?”

Sherlock trembled. “Go ‘way.”

“I won’t, Shirley. But I will wait until you feel more sociable.” Moriarty’s face vanished. Moment’s later, the bedsprings crushed down on him. Sherlock shrieked as the sagging bed pinned his bad arm down.

“Shall I get up?” Moriarty bounced the bed lightly from where he sat. 

Sherlock’s continued screams were assent enough. After a few minutes, Moriarty got up, flipped the bed, and popped Sherlock’s arm back into place. Sherlock continued to scream from the pain for quite some time.

Mostly from the pain.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay: hell week for my show means no free time to write! But I should be back on schedule now. Enjoy.

When John woke, Sherlock was fussing in his carseat, whining that he wanted (among other things) his Mummy, his Daddy, and to get out of the car. 

“We’re here.” Officer Don’s voice was just as chipper as before. “Let’s head in, hmm?”

John grumbled assent. The nap had left him groggy. Sherlock stopped whining once the Officer unbelted him. 

The building was a plain office building: not the police station headquarters. Wouldn’t do to drag children through a stream of criminals. It was quiet, dully lit, and seemingly deserted aside from officer Don and themselves.

Don led them to a small room full of computers and one younger female officer.

She smiled warmly. “Hello, I’m officer Sarah. I’m going to copy your fingerprints, so we can find your Mummy and Daddy. Okay?”

Sherlock hid his face in John’s shirt. John nodded. This was it. In a few minutes they’d either be identified and Mycroft would come swooping in, or the system would fail and they’d have to find a new way to get his attention.

John sat quietly as the electronic reader hummed under his fingertips. Officer Sarah was prattling on about how brave they were, and it wasn’t going to hurt, and things that he would have possibly found comforting if he was actually three years old.

Sherlock was still playing the scared child, whimpering while Officer Sarah held his hand to the device. John bore it quietly, not caring if he looked odd. Let him look odd: all the more reason to trigger whatever sort of internal mechanism Mycroft watched that alerted him to weirdness.

“This should only take a few--Oh!” Sarah’s voice jumped as something surprised her. “Yes, here we are: Harold Hamish Thomas and Scott William Thomas.”

John whipped around, open mouthed. On the monitor were two separate profiles: one had a picture of himself and one of Sherlock. They were sitting against a plain black background, and neither boy had any sort of expression. Like whatever had actually been behind them had merely been cropped out.

Sherlock was also staring at the screen, but managed to mask his astonishment slightly better than John.

John’s mind raced. They’d come up with the fake names less than an hour ago. How the hell had someone set up a fake profile for them in that short time? 

Not to mention the troubling inclusion of his actual middle name, a secret known to very few people.

“Let’s see...your parents are Mr. and Mrs. Harold and Belinda Thomas. Currently away on business out of the country, according to their passports.” The woman frowned. “Have you been staying with your Grandmother or someone, boys?”

John’s heart thudded. It was impossible to think. Who...How...When…

“Um.” He managed.

And mercifully, the phone rang. Officer Sarah grabbed it, not taking her eyes off the two confused boys.

John scuttled to Sherlock’s side. “What the _hell_ is happening?”

“There aw only two people who could have done this so fast: Mycwoft or Mowiawty.” Sherlock’s mask was slipping: John could see terror just below the surface. “I can’t tell.”

John hugged him, not caring if the officers would think it odd. “It’s going to be okay. I won’t let anything happen.”

It sounded hollow the moment he said it. Not only had he already let a month’s captivity under Moriarty happen, he was in no position to keep anything else from befalling either of them.

A chill ran down John’s spine. Helpless. He’d been trying to avoid the thought, but it couldn’t be helped any longer. He was helpless.

“Right...yes….we’ll expect him momentarily, sir.” Officer Sarah hung up the phone. “Boys, your uncle has contacted us: he’ll be coming to get you soon. But first--”

And then, oh blessed relief, Lestrade was bursting through the door. His eyes landed on the boys and he couldn’t fail to stifle his gasp. “Oh my dear sweet lord.”

“Sir? Is everything alright?”

He ignored her, approaching them slowly. “Your...uncle...Mycroft is going to be here soon, boys.”

At this, Sherlock burst into tears. Only John knew they were ones of relief.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock lay huddled under his blanket, silent tears falling down his face. It was his third week in this nightmare. Or so he thought; his internal calendar had failed some time ago, after Moriarty had knocked him to the ground and he’d lost consciousness. He only had a vague estimate now.

He was bruised and battered: even with a flawless performance, Moriarty hadn’t been satisfied. Nothing Sherlock did was good enough. Whatever Moriarty wanted from this torture, he wasn’t getting it.

A small THUD at the far side of the room made him shrink further into the sparse bedding. ‘No more, please, please, just let me sleep, please...’

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock. Not Shirley. Not the lilting Irish voice, but John’s solid tones, frightened but there. Sherlock flung himself from the bed, into the waiting arms.

“John.” He clutched, feeling the soft jumper, smelling John’s aftershave, and letting himself sink into John’s arms. Tears were rolling down his face, but he didn’t care. John had come, at last, he was safe, he was rescued, he--

The arms holding him shifted, and Sherlock clamped down on a scream. It wasn’t John.

The light flicked on. Sebastian Moran stood in the doorway, face carefully blank. Moriarty stared down at him, eyes half lidded. He was wearing one of John’s jumpers. There was a small voice modulator clamped between his teeth.

He spit it out. “Sorry Shirley. Just a test. Looks like you failed. Pity.”

Sherlock’s hand shot out, making contact with Moriarty’s nose. It was more surprise than pain that caused Moriarty to drop him. He darted forwards, slipped past Moran, and up the stairs. Trying for the door was out of the question: it would be locked. But maybe he could break a window upstairs. There had to be at least one. He must have just missed it on his previous week-long exploration of the house.

By the time Moran thudded up the stairs, Sherlock had squeezed himself into the cupboard under the bathroom sink. There were no windows. He knew this. Just as he knew he couldn’t hide for very long from the two men.

Just a few moments. Enough to try and get his mind together, that’s all he needed.

Sherlock clutched his head, stifling his sobs as best he could. He’d really thought John had come at last. Seeing Moriarty had been the worst thing yet. He’d take a thousand slaps, a thousand thousand kicks: anything but having his hopes dashed again.

He shouldn’t have been fooled so easily, either. A chill ran up his spine. 

Moriarty’s torture was working.

He stared blankly at the walls, trying to think of something, anything to keep his mind together. Not hope, certainly. 

He was still staring when Moran opened the cupboard and hauled him out, unprotesting. Moriarty had a bloody washcloth under his nose.

“So, what now?” Moran studied his boss’s face carefully. He was enraged mere moments ago: now he looked almost normal. For Moriarty.

Moriarty sighed. “Boys will be boys, I suppose. I’d hoped he would be past the ‘rescue’ thing by now. But it looks like it all worked out. Give him here, we’ll put him to bed again.”

Sherlock’s blank gaze gave Moran a chill. He smothered it. At least the kid was going with the boss’s plan, however slowly.

Moriarty tucked the former master detective into bed, almost lovingly. Sherlock stared unblinking at the ceiling.

“In the morning, we’ll start the last stage.”

Sherlock made no sign, even when the lights flicked off and the door closed behind them.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this isn't as long as usual. But, if you want more of my writing check out my blog http://zombiesanddice.blogspot.com/ Today's post: Five things that piss me off about the Wizard of Oz franchise. My favorite movie of all time...this was a toughie, folks.
> 
> Also, thanks for the many great reviews! They honestly keep me going.


	15. Chapter 15

John couldn't help staring: Sherlock clutched Lestrade and refused to let go. Lestrade carried him, Sherlock’s face buried in his shoulder. John followed a few steps behind, heart hammering. This was bad. Sherlock had almost come back to himself while they’d been escaping. Just the idea of returning to Moriarty had reduced him to a child again. Even now that they were safe he wasn’t coming out of it.

“Greg?” John hurried his steps, catching up to the inspector. He’d made excuses to the other officers about taking them to Mycroft to get them all out of the office.

“Yes John?” Lestrade almost stuttered on the name. John could hardly blame him.

“How much did Mycroft tell you?”

Lestrade mulled over this as he pulled the car door open with his free hand. “Only what happened, and that James Moriarty was behind it.”

John stepped into the car: no carseats in here. Well, Lestrade wasn’t likely to crash. “And he’s waiting for us?”

“At his place, yeah. I’m taking you there.” Lestrade tapped Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, I can’t drive one handed. You have to let go now.”

Sherlock whimpered and burrowed himself in tighter. Lestrade looked to John, pleading.

“Sherlock? Please sit with me.”

Damn his useless child body. Damn Moriarty for putting him in this position. If only he was still an adult he could take care of Sherlock...take care of everything. But he was helpless. He’d tried rescuing Sherlock and made a total botch of it. Now Sherlock wouldn’t trust him. Maybe ever again. 

Sherlock lifted his head after an eternity. “Okay.”

John smiled, weak and weary. It was something. Lestrade placed him on the seat and Sherlock grabbed John’s hand. His eyes were more or less focused on the back of the driver’s seat.

John squeezed his hand. Sherlock squeezed back.

Maybe he wasn’t entirely useless.

0o0

Mycroft watched them exit the car, face carefully blank. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come myself.”

John nodded. “Just glad you sent someone trustworthy.”

Lestrade exited the car, Sherlock in his arms. He’d fallen asleep on the way over, and John couldn’t bear to wake him. “They’re fine, physically.”

“Indeed. Thank you Inspector.” Mycroft’s eyebrow raised ever so slightly at the sight of his sleeping brother. “Let us go inside.”

John walked between the two grownup into Mycroft’s home. It was big, but not a mansion. Just outside London, but not too far into the country. It seemed more a waystation that a proper home.

Lestrade laid Sherlock on the couch. He whimpered, but didn’t wake. “What happens now?”

Mycroft sat heavily in an armchair. “Now I get the top scientists in the country to speed up their research on a cure, inspector.

“There’s no cure?” John blurted. “But--”

“There is a cure, it’s just not fully tested.” Mycroft cut him off. “And I don’t wish you and Sherlock to be guinea pigs.”

“Well, that’ll be a change.” John’s temper rose. “You’re not even surprised, are you? Did you know where Sherlock was all this time? What Moriarty did to him?”

Mycroft gave him a chilly look. “If I’d known where he was keeping Sherlock, I’d have brought the queen’s guard to his door, Dr. Watson. As soon as I located you two at the arcade, we swung into action. I only regret Inspector Lestrade was unable to pick you up directly from there: I needed time to create your identities in the system.”

“And convince me this wasn’t some sort of prank.” Lestrade said.

“But you knew what happened to him.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow didn’t twitch, his adam’s apple didn’t bob, and sweat didn’t appear on his brow. “I had an idea.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would you have believed me?” Mycroft challenged. “Come doctor, even the things at Baskerville were inconsequential next to this. You’d have thought I was joking, or playing dumb at the very least.”

“Like you’d ever play dumb.” John retorted.

“Boys? If I could add something?” Lestrade cut in. “What the bloody hell do we do right now?”

This quieted the arguing men for a time. 

“Sherlock’s been through God knows what torture.” John broke the silence. “He needs help.”

“Undoubtedly true, but hard to accomplish.” Mycroft said. “My brother’s history with therapy is unsuccessful. He’ll be less likely to trust anyone now.”

“I don’t care!” John slammed one tiny fist on the table. “I have no bloody idea what he’s been through, but the mere possibility of returning to it drove him out of his mind! You find somebody he trusts, Mycroft!”

His heart was beating wildly. Lestrade looked amazed at the outpouring of anger: Mycroft looked a little sad.

“I fear that you, Inspector Lestrade, and the few others in his inner circle are the only ones that fit that bill. None of them trained therapists, of course.”

“So that’s it? Just keep him with me until he snaps out of it?” John snarled. “That’s not good enough!”

“Don’t mistake me, Doctor: I will do whatever it takes to get Sherlock well.” Mycroft's voice dropped dangerously. “And if you aren’t enough to accomplish that, I’ll find a way.”

John’s anger turned to panic. “You wouldn’t--”

“Separate you two? Never.” Mycroft’s voice eased. “But you do yourself too little credit, John. Being away from Moriarty and with you will do Sherlock more good than a therapist in the short run. Not that I won’t look for someone with correct qualifications to take over where needed. In the meantime, it will be up to his...friends.”

John allowed himself a moment to get under control. “So...Greg’s right. What happens to us now?”

“Let’s wake Sherlock up and discuss it.”

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock raced down the hallway, coat flying, struggling to breathe. Somewhere else a little child was sobbing in pain and fear, but not here, here there was only a grown man and everything he’d ever known. Here he was safe.

If only he could get downstairs.

He opened doors at random, always to the right, forever downward in a spiral. He’d find the stairs soon, then--

The door refused to budge. 

Sherlock stared at the knob, confused. He rattled it. Locked? How was that possible? He dropped to his knees and peered through the old-fashioned keyhole. He could see a few things in the room: it was full of files on poisons and toxins. A few obvious things lay out: bleach, sulfuric acid (that was misfiled, how odd), and a large bottle marked “poison” with a skull and crossbones.

It was all there. Why couldn’t he get in?

“Shirley…”

Sherlock ran through the door next to it. He’d have time to think once he was safe and alone downstairs. All the time in the world to think.

But more and more doors refused to give, slowing his descent. He dropped to his knees over and over, confirming the files were still there. Just the access was gone.

Only one more door between him and the room. His breath was shallow. He’d run from the voice, but it was catching up. If he didn’t get through at least one of these doors, it would catch up.

He didn’t know what would happen if it did.

Sherlock tried the door, a wave of relief washing over him as it opened. Stress, that was all. Stress of the last month was why he couldn’t get in.

And then it was all John Watson. 

Sherlock huddled in a corner of the room, letting himself grow calm. The feel of John’s jumpers. The smell of his aftershave. The sound of his laughter. All echoed through this room, not dusty, or neglected, or locked, but visited often and well kept.

“Shirley?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and twisted his head. Moriarty couldn’t get to him. Not in here. Never here. He was safe. This could protect him, even if the real John wasn’t there.

Or wasn’t coming.

“Shirley. Come out at once.”

The voice was right outside the door. It didn’t matter. He was safe.

He whimpered as the door swung open.

“Shirley, you can’t hide from this.” Moriarty’s voice. “Now, are you going to come cooperate? There’s nowhere left for you to hide.”

“Get out.” Sherlock hissed.

“I won’t.” 

Sherlock’s eyes opened.

Moriarty stared down at him.He was smiling. “I will lock all of the rooms if I have to, Shirley. Including wherever you thought you could hide.”

“No.” Sherlock winced hearing his voice, not his real voice, the little boy voice Moriarty had given him. 

“No? Go back and see.” Moriarty straightened up. “Go on. I’ll wait.”

Sherlock slammed his eyes closed. Moriarty hadn’t, _couldn’t_ have locked his doors, it was his mind palace, it was  his! 

This time he ran for the stairs. No time for John’s room, that had been his mistake. Sentiment. 

He flew past closed doors, not caring if they were locked. 

Finally, he got to the bottom. The last door. Steel. Thick. No keyholes.

He opened the door, ready to throw himself in for hours, days, forever.

Moriarty stared back at him, smiling, straight jacket on the floor. He seized Sherlock’s collar and lifted him into the air. Sherlock failed to suppress a scream.

He was a child here, too.

“See what I meant now, Shirley? You can’t run from this. Not even here.” Moriarty shook him. “I’ve won, brat. There’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, and no John Watson coming to save you.”

Then his world dissolved into screams.

0o0

Moriarty laid the limp body of the boy on his bed. Sherlock stopped screaming some time ago: his face was blank. Not hidden in the vaults of his mind palace. Just blank with terror.

Moriarty grinned at Sebastian. “Isn’t it _wonderful_?”

“You could have brainwashed him without going to all this trouble.” Moran didn’t look at Sherlock. 

“I admit, it was harder. But the results will stick this way. Imagine that mind, still full to bursting with everything Sherlock ever knew, at my disposal. He’ll be better than a supercomputer. Safer file storage, too.”

“And Watson?”

Moriarty flapped a hand. “Oh, he’ll get here sooner or later. That’ll be the final nail in the coffin. This won’t last forever, you know. But if he even _thinks_ his precious Johnny boy is in danger, he’ll give me whatever loyalty I need.”

Moran nodded stiffly. This plan wasn’t just some insane super villinish caper. This was a through, though out, careful equation.

That was much scarier.

“And so, we wait for Johnny boy to show up.” Moriarty cooed, tucking the blanket around Sherlock. Sherlock gave no sign of understanding. He didn’t even blink.

A little Sherlock, raised in his image. Moriarty nearly chuckled at the thought. He’d never wanted a little one to grow and carry on the legacy, and that hadn't changed. When he was bored of the scheme, or Sherlock stopped amusing him, he’d dispose of Sherlock, Johnny, and anyone else who found out about his little scheme. 

But for now, Sherlock was more entertaining alive. 

For now.

0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock sat quietly as the situation was explained to him (not a mention of therapy, John noted). He didn’t wake up and cling to Lestrade or Mycroft, as John half expected. 

“You aw _not_ sending us to live with Mummy.” 

“Mummy doens’t have the proper security training.” Mycroft replied. “There are very few people I’d trust with you and Dr. Watson in your present condition. Half of them are already in this room.”

“Molly?” John asked.

Mycroft nodded. “And Mrs. Hudson. Again, neither really trained for security.”

Lestrade shook himself. “I couldn’t--”

“You can and will, inspector. You’ve already been given the time off, with pay.”

“I’m in the middle of several investigations--”

“All of which will be brought to a close within the month.” Mycroft waved his protests off. “Inspector, you are literally the only person on the face of this earth I trust with my brother’s safety in this circumstance. You _will_ do this.”

Lestrade flushed, but his arguments died away.

“How long until the cure is ready?” John asked.

“It could be anywhere up to three months.”

“Three--”

“Inspector. I have the best minds in the world working on it. I can ask no more of them.”

“What are we supposed to do for three months?” Lestrade demanded. “Live at Baker street with Mrs. Hudson and pretend everything is fine?”

“It may well be as little as four weeks.” Mycroft said. “But no, Baker street isn’t an option. You’ll have to go into hiding of a sort. Moriarty will come. When he arrives, you will be the one to bring him in, inspector.”

“BAIT?!” John jumped off the couch. “We’re going to be bait?!”

“Would you rather Moriarty just forget about whatever plan he had for Sherlock and move on to attacking the country? A little of that toxin injected into a few key dignitaries, and we’d face world chaos.” Mycroft said sharply. “So yes Doctor. Bait. You and Sherlock will go into hiding just deep enough to make it interesting for that madman, and then you will wait for him to show up.”

Sherlock’s face went pale. “No.”

Mycroft’s expression softened instantly. “Sherlock, I promise you, you’ll be safe. I--”

“No! We had all the plans in the world befow, and--and--No! NO I WON’T! I _WON’T_!”

Mycroft swept the shrieking toddler into his arms and went from the room. Normal brotherly discourse (normal for the Holmes’s anyway) was out of the question. John raced after them, but was stopped by Lestrade.

“Let me go!” John snarled, turning on him. “Mycroft is making everything worse!”

“I don’t like it either, but you can talk sense into them. Especially with Sherlock screaming his head off.” Lestrade looked pained. “Let them have a few minutes alone.”

“He needs me!” John insisted, angry tears flooding his vision.

“I know.” Lestrade didn’t let go. “You’ll be here when they come back.”

John wanted to sit down and sob. He struggled to get himself under control. He had to be okay when Sherlock came back.

The screams died. They talked, but John couldn’t make out the words. After an eternity, Mycroft came back, Sherlock following calmly behind.

John let go of Lestrade’s hand, unaware of when he’d taken it to begin with.

“That’s settled.” Mycroft seated himself, cool as ice. “The three of you will go into hiding and wait for Moriarty to come.”

“What if you find the cure first?” John wanted to grab Sherlock in a hug, but Sherlock didn’t look like he wanted anyone touching him.

“I highly doubt Moriarty will wait more than three weeks.” Mycroft avoided the question. “A car is coming around the house now. It will take you to a small house in the middle of the countryside, not plotted on any maps.”

“I can’t just go without talking to my staff!” Lestrade said.

“I’m sorry inspector, this cannot wait. If you need to communicate with anyone but me, a special post will be at your service. Just write the name of the recipient and leave it in the postbox. It will be delivered within a day.”

“Do I get sealing wax and a lantern too?” Lestrade muttered.

Mycroft produced a phone from the inner pocket of his coat. “Ring me in the event of an emergency. Keep it with Sherlock at all times.”

“Shouldn’t I have it?”

“He is not coming for you, inspector.” Mycroft handed Sherlock the phone. Sherlock studied it grudgingly. “Take care with it.”

“I won’t bweak the phone.” Sherlock glared at him.

“Very good.” Mycroft’s own phone beeped. “The car is here.”

Then they were ushered outside to a small car, with Athena at the wheel. John blinked in surprise. Mycroft must really have top security on this. He’d never seen her look up from her phone for so long.

“I will call soon.” Mycroft reached to help Sherlock into a carseat, but the younger Holmes scrambled in, away from his touch. John followed suit. Lestrade got into the car, fuming and bewildered. “Drive.” 

Mycroft didn’t even say goodbye as the car pulled away.

John watched Sherlock. “You alright?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and looked out the window.

Bit not good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the divergent timelines have almost caught up. Don't worry, the POV will still change, as the story dictates. Just an FYI.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock sat quietly as Moriarty told him things. He sat quietly while the man unlocked doors and stored the new information. He sat quietly while eating. He sat quietly alone, staring at the wall of his bedroom.

“John will be here by tomorrow. The little hint I’ve dropped about the shopping center will do the last of the work. It’ll snap Shirley out of this funk.” Moriarty told Moran after putting the boy to bed.

Moran nodded. “Then what?”

Moriarty smiled. “Then what’s left of his is locked down.”

0o0

Sherlock thrashed in his brother’s arms, not caring if he was making a scene, not caring if Mycroft would make snide remarks. He could not, _would_ not go back to Moriarty. He’d run to one of his bolt-holes, to another country, to Mummy, anywhere that would keep him safe.

To his shock, Mycroft didn’t try to quiet him, or tell him to stop being an idiot: he wrapped Sherlock in a tight hug.

“I am so sorry, Sherlock. I will never let him near you. I promise.”

Sherlock grew quiet. He hadn’t expected this. He let Mycroft hold him for some time. “I don’t want to go.”

“I know.” Mycroft released him, face less than calm. “But we have to draw him out. If we don’t, he’ll come back and try this again.”

Sherlock’s throat closed around a fresh cry. Mycroft saw this and held Sherlock’s hands in his own. 

“I won’t let you be taken, do you understand that? Not again, not ever again.”

Sherlock didn’t trust himself to speak. He nodded.

“You are safe. Lestrade will be with you. Nobody will know where you’ve gone, except me. Nobody...” Mycroft trailed off. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock placed a hand to his forehead, not sure the words would come. “Locked.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “Locked? What--”

It was too much. Sherlock threw himself into Mycroft’s lap, sobbing. Mycroft caught him up, but didn’t say anything.

When he stopped crying, Mycroft tilted his head gently. “He locked off your rooms.”

Sherlock buried his face in Mycroft’s suit coat. Mycroft stroked his hair.

“It’s all still there?”

Sherlock nodded, sniffling. “But I can’t get to it!”

“It will come. You’re scared, and you’ve been through hell. The doors will open.”

“And if they don’t?”

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. “Then you’ll make new ones.”

Sherlock sagged, heart sinking. Re-learning a lifetime’s work?

Well. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have the time.

Mycroft’s face went soft, and he smiled. “They’re not all gone, or you and John wouldn’t have been so clever escaping. I’ll help you, Sherlock. We’ll get there.”

“You’re sending me away.” Sherlock murmured, unable to fight.

“Not forever. And only to keep you safe.”

But he wasn’t safe, that was the point, and Mycroft didn’t understand, even if Moriarty was dead he wasn’t safe, not with the panic room unlocked, not with the chains thrown off, not with the thing in his mind being so big and he being so little, not now, not ever again.

The words to explain this were locked away. 

“Let’s rejoin John and Lestrade.” Mycroft stood, leaving Sherlock on the couch. 

Sherlock hopped off, not wanting to see John’s fantic face, or Lestrade’s bewilderment. Unavoidable.

He walked besides his brother, eyes downcast, heart thudding.

0o0

The house was smaller than Mycroft’s. Not titchy by any means. Two stories, enough room for the three of them. John saw a tall brick wall around the perimeter. Probably loads of other security precautions as well. He’d go over it with Lestrade when Sherlock went to sleep.

The sun was setting by the time they got inside, Lestrade hefting a small pile of baggage. John tried to help, but there was nothing light enough for him to lift.

Sherlock studied the house, deducing things.

“Well, let’s get inside. That woman said there was food in the fridge, so I can do a fry-up for dinner.” Lestrade fumbled in his pocket for a keycard, spilling baggage on the stoop. “Damnit.”

“Let me.” John held out his hand.

“Sorry John, you can’t reach.” Lestrade slid the card through the reader, well above John’s head.

John tried to ignore the swell of panic that followed. It wasn’t just about being locked up, he was too small to do anything useful. If Moriarty came back the only protection Sherlock had was Lestrade. Not himself, not John, not even a gun. Just a phone and Lestrade.

John’s breath quickened, and his heart sped up. It was like being pinned down under fire, but worse, much worse, he wasn’t sure when the fire would come, or from where, or really even why, why, why was this--

His thoughts were broken by a shout. Sherlock was shaking him, eyes wide and frightened. “John?!”

Lestrade, occupied with the baggage and getting his charges inside, hadn’t noticed the panic attack until now. “John, are you okay?”

John struggled to breath. He had to get himself under control. Sherlock needed him, he needed to be strong, be the adult--

But of course, he wasn’t an adult. 

Sherlock hugged him, and Lestrade was down on one knee, trying to calm him down. He sagged into the inspector’s arms, letting himself be held, letting the two of them sooth him.

He needed it.


	19. Chapter 19

Lestrade watched the two boys pick listlessly at the fry-up he’d managed. John hadn’t spoke much since his panic attack, and Sherlock was still quiet and strange. John pushed his plate away, food barely touched.

“Not hungry?”

“No.” 

“Why don’t you two take a look round while I clean up?” They’d be hungry enough in the morning. “I have no idea where anything is.”

John looked at Sherlock, uncertain. Sherlock considered this for a moment and eased off the chair. “Alwight.”

“I’ll be along in a bit.” Lestrade finished his dinner as they left. A bit of time alone might help. 

His head was still swimming. Sherlock and John turned into children. Sherlock _alive_. God only knew what happened in the month he’d been gone.

Gone because he’d believed Moriarty’s damn lies. Everyone had. He was a detective, he was supposed to know liars. If he’d listened to John...to himself…

He couldn’t make it up. But he could help them now. Not that the elder Holmes had given him much choice.

What if Mycroft had been lying? What if there was no cure? Lestrade didn’t have kids, or even younger siblings. He had zero experience with children outside of his job.

Not that John and Sherlock were exactly children.

John seemed more himself than Sherlock, but neither was normal. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Whatever Moriarty had done to them wasn’t about to be shaken off.

Another thing he had no experience in coping with.

He collected the plates. The kitchen was larger than his own, well stocked. No worries there. He loaded the dishes into the washer. He didn’t want to deal with the boys. He could at least put it off a little.

Dishes clean, he went in search of his charges. It wasn’t easy: the house was getting dark and they were too small to reach the lights. After a few minutes of wandering he found them. They’d discovered the bedrooms. A large one with two small bed shared a wall with his own. 

Well, he’d be nearby if they needed him in the night.

“Getting tired?” 

Sherlock was sitting on one of the beds, John next to him.

“A bit.” John said.

“Bed time. Um. I guess.” This was so damned awkward. They were men, but they were also small boys. “Yeah. Time for bed.”

Sherlock slipped the bed and clambered onto the other one. “You checked the locks?”

“Yes. I’ll be up, making sure everything’s okay.” Lestrade eased a little. “I’ll be right through there, alright?”

Sherlock burrowed under the bedding, not bothering to reply.

“Thanks Greg.” John gave him a weary little smile. It was strange and adult in the young face.

Lestrade fumbled with the knob and escaped the room.

0o0

It wasn’t more than a few minutes before John vacated his bed and slipped into Sherlock’s. Sherlock didn’t ask why he was there, or say he was fine alone. He snuggled next to John. John wrapped his arms around the smaller boy.

“We’re okay.” 

They weren’t. But saying it was the first step towards making it true, John hoped.

Sherlock buried his face in John’s shirt. Lestrade hadn’t made them change into sleepwear. He hadn’t made them do anything. He was scared and bewildered and had no idea what the hell to do.

But he was trying.

“We’re okay.” John said, more firm. 

Sherlock lifted his head, staring curiously at him. “John?”

“We’re going to be okay.” It felt like less of a lie. “I trust him.”

“...Me too.”

“Good. Let’s get some sleep.” John watched until Sherlock closed his eyes.

They’d be okay.

0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about being late: holiday and all. Enjoy!

This was _not_ okay.

Sherlock prodded the lump of porridge in the bottom of the bowl. “You need to stir more.”

“I usually just have coffee.” Lestrade prodded at his own breakfast. “I’ll get better at it.”

John, used to MREs and other unpalatable fare, ate his breakfast without complaint. “Any word from Mycroft?”

“Not yet.” Lestrade said. “It may be some time.”

Sherlock ate a few spoonfuls. “What do we do now?”

“Well, there’s a computer and a telly.” Lestrade had taken a good look around the place after the boys were asleep. There were security cameras too, but he didn’t need to tell them that. They’d have it figured out already. “There’s also a small library. If we want anything in particular I can put a note in the post. Mycroft will get us whatever we like.”

“A cookbook.” Sherlock hopped down. John’s lips twitched, struggling not to smile.

“I’ll get a shopping list together.” Lestrade ignored the snide remark. Inside, he was smiling; that was a very Sherlock thing to say.

John joined him. They’d explored the house only briefly last night, to scared and tired to make good of it. “Let’s see if there’s anything else in here.”

Sherlock let himself be led from the table. It was as good an idea as any; he didn’t want to watch the telly and rot what was left of his mind. Let John tell him what to do and what to think. He needed somebody to take Moriarty’s place. 

“You okay?” John grabbed his hand.

“Fine.” Sherlock didn’t bother to lie well. John knew he wasn’t fine. No point in trying to change his mind.

John didn’t press the issue. Now was not the moment. “Okay.”

They wandered the house, finding everything Lestrade had mentioned, and a few surprises: a finished basement filled with entertainments, a washroom with a tub large enough for four people, and a large backyard with some berry bushes. Rosehips, John thought.

He plucked a few. “Still hungry?”

Sherlock nodded and reached for them.

“NO!”

The shout from behind startled John into dropping the berries. Lestrade came running, terrified. He grabbed John’s small hands and hustled him into the house.

“Ow! Greg--”

“Those are poisonous!” Greg hustled him towards the house. 

“They’re rosehips!” John argued. 

“Those are Black Bryony. My cousin ate some when we were kids and had to go to the hospital. He nearly _died_.” Lestrade let go of John’s hands long enough to get the taps in the bathroom running. “They look similar. Vines and all.”

“Sherlock, tell him they were rosehips.” John yelped when his hands were plunged into the hot water.

Sherlock said nothing, eyes wide.

“Sherlock? I know you know the difference. The Aberdeen Pie shop case, you--”

Sherlock ran from the room. He couldn’t take John’s trusting smile. 

Sherlock ran down the stairs, to the basement. They’d look for him in the bedroom first, not down here. He’d have a few minutes to try and think. He squirmed behind the sofa for a bit of added protection.

The worst part? He had no idea who was right. Those berries, whatever they were, were locked away with most of his botanical knowledge. He peered through the keyhole, seeing only strawberries and blackberries and the like. Easily identifiable, even to a toddler. The rest were locked away.

He stared at nothing. He banged on the door, screaming. He sat quietly, waiting to be found.

After some time, John’s clumping steps came down the stairs. “Sherlock?”

“I’m here.” He didn’t move. Keeping quiet would serve no point, John would find him.

John peered behind the couch. He looked desperately worried. “Tell me what’s happened.”

Sherlock turned his head away. 

“Sherlock, you could have gotten very sick because of me. Tell me!” John’s voice rose.

Sherlock blinked, surprised. “It would have been my fault, not yows.”

“No! I offered you those berries, I--” John cut himself short. “I almost poisoned you. Tell me it was an experiment, Sherlock. Tell me you know which berry it was and you were just messing with me.”

Sherlock looked at the light blue carpet and said nothing.

John barreled into him, wrapping him in a hug. “What has he done to you?”

Sherlock shook, battling the tears. He’d gotten a little of himself back, he couldn’t throw that away for another cry.

“He’s in your head, isn’t he?” John’s voice was thick with tears. “Whatever he did to you. He’s gotten in there and you don’t remember things because he’s in there, somehow. Is that it?”

“How did you know?” Sherlock choked out. Even Mycroft hadn’t seen the monster inside him.

“Because you are not yourself.” John grabbed his face. “And there is only one person who could make you not yourself. And you were whu-whu-with him because I c-c-couldn’t...I didn’t…”

John broke into tears, clutching his friend.

Sherlock’s head spun. John blamed himself. He understood and blamed _himself_.

“You rescued me.” Sherlock formed the words carefully. 

“Not soon enough.”

There was nothing to say.

“We’ll get him out, Sherlock. We’ll get rid of him and unblock everything, I promise.” 

Sherlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak.


	21. Chapter 21

The next two weeks passed without any dramatic incidents. Lestrade was surprised: no nightmares, no accidents, no emotional breakdowns, nothing. The boys--men--the two were quieter than he liked, but that was about it. He cooked for them, they watched the morning and evening news together, and that was about it.

Sometimes late at night he’d hear John and Sherlock talking in the next room. He didn’t get up and chide them; they didn’t want him to know what was happening. 

He pressed his ear to the wall a time or two. Just in case they needed help. He couldn’t make out much anyway. Something about Moriarty, chasing, doors. The torture Sherlock had been put through? A nightmare he’d been having? Or something worse?

He’d almost opened the door so many times.

0o0

Sherlock navigated the halls of his mind palace, listening for the footfalls of the madman in his head. He hadn’t heard him for two night. Maybe his madness was locked away again, thanks to John’s ministrations. Maybe if he went down there the room would be locked as always, he’d be sane, and the locked doors would fly open.

It had been difficult to explain to John with most of his words locked away. But he understood well enough. And now he talked Sherlock down the halls nightly, searching for open doors, holding him when Moriarty’s footfalls started. Sherlock envisioned himself with lock picks, and John keeping watch. They’d opened a few doors of no consequence: one about poisonous insects, one about neurotoxins and their effects. 

Poison had been much on Sherlock’s mind. 

It was just a matter of patience and careful mental exercises.

At this rate all the doors would be open by the time they were old enough to drink.

Still, John talked him through the halls every night as long as they could stay awake. It wasn’t long; their little bodies tired out fast. 

Lestrade had been taking good care of them, he had to admit. He’d learned a few recipes, found them books, movies, anything they could want to keep themselves entertained. He didn’t press them to talk. He didn’t really talk much, period. It was a nice change.

So here they sat, Sherlock trying doors, and John talking to him, reassuring him that he was safe, that the madness couldn’t take him, _Moriarty_ couldn’t take him, that all would be well.

The soft *snick* of the window opening was almost too quiet for Sherlock to hear. By the time he opened his eyes, the madness was there, hand clamped over John’s mouth, grinning.

“Hello Shirley.”

A scream welled up in his chest. Moriarty placed his hand on John’s face. One quick move and his neck would snap. Sherlock clamped down on the scream.

“Johnny boy’s coming with me.” Moriarty wrapped his arms around the struggling toddler. “Did you really think I’d let you escape that easy?”

Sherlock tried to move. His muscles locked. John struggled, but his strength was nothing compared to a grown man.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Shirley. I’ll keep Johnny boy. I’ll contact you with things I need to know about how good old Mycroft is running the country: he’ll be keeping a closer eye on you now that his plan has failed. You give me info. Johnny lives. Don’t and Johnny dies. Simple enough for a child to understand.”

Sherlock locked eyes with John. John twisted his head as much as possible. Trying to tell him no, let him die. Impossible. Never. 

“I’ll be in contact. Ta!” Moriarty slipped out the window, John still kicking.

0o0

Sherlock’s scream roused Lestrade instantly. He burst through the door, gun drawn. Window open. John gone. Sherlock clawing desperately at the sill, trying to get out.

Oh God.

Lestrade vaulted out the window. A black van sped down the road, vanishing into the gloom.

He ran back to the window. “The phone Sherlock, quick!”

Sherlock ignored him, still trying to clamber over the sill and not making any progress. Lestrade climbed back in and snatched the phone off the nightstand. 

As soon as he pressed a button it rang through to Mycroft. “Sherlock?”

“Mycroft, they’ve taken John.” Lestrade ran down the hall, grasping for his keys. Maybe he could still catch them. Sherlock might have trailed him, he didn’t stop to check.

“Inspector, listen to me very carefully: take Sherlock and drive after him. We will meet you en route.”

“Of cour--”

He hung up.

“Sherlock, we’re going after John. Quick!” Lestrade returned to the room. Sherlock sat in the corner, blank, face awash with tears. No time to talk to him. He swept the small detective into his arms and raced for the door. “We’re meeting Mycroft.”

God help him, if John was hurt by that monster--

“Don’t take me to Mycwoft!” Sherlock’s wail broke his thoughts apart. “Mycwoft won’t tell me anything, he’ll kill John!”

Lestrade jerked to a halt. “What?”

“Mowiawty...he’ll kill John if I don’t tell him about Mycwoft.” Sherlock buried his face in Lestrade’s shirt.

Lestrade stopped, gobsmacked. The old Sherlock would have kept that bottled up, convinced he could solve it by himself, save John, and catch the criminal in one fell swoop. Moriarty must have expected as much. He had broken the little detective far beyond expected parameters. 

Lestrade loaded him into a car seat, head spinning. Sherlock Holmes needed his help. And _admitted_ it.

“John isn’t going to die.” Lestrade got into the driver’s seat. “I promise you.”

Sherlock’s muted sobs were the only answer.


	22. Chapter 22

John watched Sherlock pick locks, babbling meaningless reassurances. He gripped the bedspread tight, glad Sherlock’s eyes were closed. He didn’t dare let Sherlock see him scared.

He wasn’t scared of the doors or the image of Moriarty loose in Sherlock’s mind: they’d unlock the doors and Sherlock stepped out of his mind palace at the mere hint of the presence. But where did that leave John?

Sherlock would overcome this and be himself in a child’s body, with all his knowledge and deductions. Sherlock could go on being Sherlock. John couldn’t be a doctor. Even with all his knowledge free and untouched, his tiny hands and weak limbs couldn’t do surgery. He couldn’t chase down a criminal, or shoot a man. He couldn’t even lift a gun (he’d tried when Lestrade and Sherlock were both asleep).

Useless. He was useless. He’d been useless in finding Sherlock and now that Sherlock was found he was more useless still.

These were the thoughts in his head just before Moriarty grabbed him.

John watched in silent horror as the madman issued his demands. He tried to bite the hand over his mouth, but the surface was too flat and wide. His little teeth scraped the skin, ineffective.

Then they were out the window, racing towards a van. Moran sat in the driver’s seat, collected.

Moriarty tossed him into the back. No seats, no padding. John banged on the floor and cried out in pain.

“Shut up John. Moriarty didn’t look back. “Seb?”

The van roared to life and sped into the night.

“Bastard.” John coiled in the corner of the van, eyes darting. Nothing he could use as a weapon. Nothing he could lift. A crowbar sat on the floor, too heavy for his little arms. He clenched his fists.

“You really thought you’d gotten away?” Moriarty cooed. “Precious. That’s why I didn’t put you through any training: you’re not much smarter than a child already.”

John bit back a retort. The door was locked, he couldn’t forced it. No windows, not that he could break them. 

He was trapped.

“In fact, we’re going to need something much worse than pain to break your spirit, Johnny.” Moriarty smiled. 

John pressed himself against the door. Brainwashing wouldn’t work on him, he had no mind palace, the army had trained him--

Liquid spurted out of a syringe, pattering on the metallic floor.

“The mere threat of this was enough to break Sherlock. But you, no, you’ll need the real thing.” Moriarty unclipped himself and crawled into the back. Moran slowed the van to a crawl. No accidental hitting a bump and having Moriarty dose himself or any nonsense like that.

John pressed himself into a corner. “Why? If you want to kill me there’s easier ways. If you want me alive you’ll just be making it harder. Children die from things adults would shrug off in a moment. Infants--”

“Oh Johnny, I’m not turning you into a baby.” Moriarty jammed the needle in him and depressed it the tiniest fraction. “Not all at once. Just a little at a time. Enough so you can feel yourself losing motor skills and the ability to walk and such. Just a few months at a time. This body’s only three, it won’t take very long. Just long enough to keep me amused.

 _Then_ I decide if they find you alive or dead. I don’t know which Sherlock will find worse. Do you?”

John clutched the injection site. He wouldn’t give Moriarty the satisfaction of whimpering or crying.

And the weakness in his limbs was only imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapters as of late. Longer ones are coming.


	23. Chapter 23

By the time they met Mycroft, Sherlock had fallen asleep. Lestrade could hardly blame him: it was three in the morning, and he was only two years old. It was an uneasy sleep: He whimpered and clutched at the air. Lestrade wanted to wake him, but the child needed rest.

Mycroft was flanked by two men nearly covered in black. “Inspector.”

“Mycroft.” He picked Sherlock up. Sherlock whimpered and clutched his overcoat, still sleeping.

“Inside, quickly.” 

Lestrade followed him. “What are you doing to find John?”

“There’s a microscopic locator attached to John’s scalp. I planted it there before you left that first day.” Mycroft ushered him into the sitting room.

Lestrade jerked. Mycroft had touched the boy for the briefest moment: he’d planned it in advance. 

No time to consider it now. “And you’ve sent agents to collect him?”

Mycoft searched for words. “It’s not that simple.”

Lestrade’s jaw dropped. “Not that _simple?_ John’s with Moriarty, helpless. He’ll be killed if Sherlock doesn’t feed information to that psycho upon request. What the hell isn’t simple?”

Mycroft sat heavily in a leather chair. “We need him to take John to the base of operations. Where the chemicals and their disbursement methods are stored. We’ve narrowed it down, but--” 

“You’re using John as a fucking tracking device?!” Lestrade roared. “You allowed John to get kidnapped so you could track where Moriarty hid his stash?!” 

“Mycwoft?” The small bewildered child blinked in Lestrade’s arms. 

Mycroft looked trapped for the first time since Lestrade had met him. “He’s getting ready to dose the populace. Even one town being hit with the effects of the chemical via water supply would result in nationwide panic. Worldwide panic, perhaps.” 

“And you sent a fucking child in so you could stop it.” Lestrade clutched Sherlock, as if Mycroft would snatch him away and send him after the doctor. “You’re a monster.” 

“Dr. Watson is no more a child than Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice rose. “I sent a soldier after a terrorist. No more, no less.” 

“Only after you sent your brother.” 

Sherlock trembled in Lestrade’s arms. 

“No. I never meant for Sherlock to get involved.” Mycroft snapped. “If I’d known where he was, I would have gotten him in a moment. But he and John became involved. I was left little choice, inspector.” 

Lestrade barked out a short laugh. “So you’re going to sacrifice Sherlock’s best friend and best hope at _sanity_ to save the fucking world.” 

“If I have to!” Mycroft turned on him, eyes blazing. “I cannot sacrifice the world to save John Watson!” 

If Lestrade hadn’t been holding a child, he would have fallen on the man, fighting until he was subdued, willing to send rescue to the tiny frightened child somewhere in England. 

“How did you know he would take John and not Sherlock?” Lestrade felt the boy bury his face in his coat, weeping. “You couldn’t have. You planted a tracker on him too, didn’t you?” 

Mycroft sagged. “I would have sent rescue.” 

“Because he’s your brother.” 

“Yes. I’m not inhuman.” 

“And if John dies? Then who will you send?” Lestrade ignored the keening wail Sherlock let out, trapped in the fabric of his coat. 

"If John’s vitals waver I can have him out almost instantly.” Mycroft’s eyebrows raised ever so slightly as Sherlock screamed. “I didn’t send him into the lion’s den without an angel or two at the ready.” 

“That and he’s no good to you dead.” Lestrade tried to find sanity in the words. “Why the hell would Moriarty take John to the center of operations?” 

“We’re running down his bolt holes. He has nowhere else to go.” Mycroft didn’t reach for Sherlock. “There was no other way, inspector. He’s spotted every tail, killed every double agent. The only thing he doesn’t suspect is a hostage.” 

Sherlock’s sobs weren’t dying off; they were getting louder, more frantic. Lestrade swept out of the room, the boy screaming in his arms. What little work had been accomplished with John was gone. If anything remained of Sherlock, it was buried under the mounting horrors provided by his brother. 


	24. Chapter 24

John lay facedown of the mattress, eyes squeezed shut, pretending not to be.

A week since he’d been taken. Maybe two. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t get injections every day, or what he thought was a day; he spent so much time sleeping. Sleeping off the effect, sleeping off the pain, sleeping off his changing body’s exhaustion. 

He catalogued the things he’d been able to do the last time he’d been awake. Walk, he’d still been able to walk. That wasimportant. Without getting up he couldn’t test his mobility. Or gauge his size.

Slowly, he swept his tongue over his teeth, counting silently. All the front teeth still there, good, middles, molars---

Molars.

Shit.

He clenched his eyes tighter, despairing. His molars had vanished. His lower canines weren’t all the way in.

That put his body at about a year and a half old.

He shuddered. Younger than Sherlock. A good deal smaller than Sherlock too: He’d always been small for his age. He might have the mobility and dexterity of an eighteen month old child, but his body was closer to the size of a year old infant.

Jesus.

He had no idea if Sherlock was feeding Moriarty information or not. He had no idea what was happening around him. All he knew was pain and sleep and those damned injections.

After a long while John cracked one eye open. Dark room, no windows, doorway blocked by bars.

John sat up, the motion more difficult than when he’d last been awake. He reached out and touched the bars. Wood. Round. Sanded smooth.

He didn’t look up to verify. A fucking crib. 

He got to his feet, wobbling on the soft crib pad. He grasped the bars, leaned over, and climbed out. The crib didn’t so much as rock when he dropped to the floor. Solid thing, at least.

He walked to the door, his gait unsteady but serviceable. Knowing more about where he was might not set him free or even help him survive the situation, but the lack of it could be deadly.

He needed to do _some_ thing.

John pressed his ear to the door and waited.

0o0

Lestrade found a couch in a dark, quiet room. He sat down and loosed his grip. The boy clutched at him, shaking and crying, hysterical. He could barely get a breath of air in before another wail tore it away. Wordless cries of pain and panic. Why not? His whole world had just crumbled away.

Lestrade wrapped him in a hug. “Sherlock, just breathe. Okay? Breathe for me. That’s it. Shh.”

It was some time before the screams petered out. Sherlock’s fists were balled in Lestrade’s shirt, unwilling or unable to let go. 

Lestrade struggled for words. “ _We’ll_ get John back. I’ll beat the location out of him if I have to.”

There was silence. 

Lestrade’s heart hammered. This might well have sent Sherlock over the edge. Why remain cognizant when John was at Moriarty’s mercy, and his own brother culpable in the kidnapping? 

“John needs you to be strong, Sherlock.” 

“He does?” 

The words were so small Lestrade almost missed them. “That’s right. He needs you. I need you to help me find him. We both need you.” 

Sherlock lifted his head, eyes red for crying. “How?” 

“I don’t know.” Lestrade admitted. “But we’ll find him. I promise.” 

Mycroft watched them from the doorway, eyes narrowed. There was one avenue left for stalling them. He hadn’t wanted to use it just yet, but times were desperate. He only needed another few days for his plan to succeed: Moriarty was circling the remaining disbursement points with increasing vigor. It was just a matter of time. 

“Let me show you on this first.” He drew the syringe containing the first dose of the cure from his pocket. 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding this a day earlier than normal, due to being extremely busy tomorrow.

John flung himself back from the door seconds before it opened. He hadn’t heard footsteps. The thing was much too solid.

Moriarty looked down, unsurprised at John’s escape from the crib. “I suppose I’d better feed you. Sooner or later Sherlock will want proof you’re still alive.”

John glared, but didn’t say anything. He followed Moriarty down a dank cement hallway, ignoring the occasional wobble in his legs. It didn’t help that his clothes were much too big for his shrinking body.

They ended up in a vast room, filled with industrial vats. It looked like the room Michael Keaton had fought Jack Nicholson in, right before he became the Joker. Men moved about, checking things, stirring things, not at all perturbed by the toddler following their boss.

John shuddered.

“Wait here.” Moriarty told him as they came to a small alcove. There was an adult-sized table and chairs, a coffee maker, an electric kettle, and not much else. Moriarty was insane and a maniac, but even he wanted to keep his workers alert and less than disgruntled.

John didn’t climb onto the chair as Moriarty left him. His eyes scanned the vast workspace. He didn’t need to be Sherlock to see the masterplan. His heart sank. Vats of this vile stuff, ready to poison the populace. 

Moriarty returned shortly, a bowl of porridge and sliced bananas in one hand, glass of milk in the other. He set these on the floor. John sat and ate. If Moriarty wanted to dose him he wouldn’t need to hide it in food.

“I wonder if Mycroft has let poor little Sherlock in on my scheme yet.” Moriarty remarked, calm and cool as ever. “Even he has to have figured it out by now.”

John continued to eat.

“The real question is, has he figured out what happens _next_?”

John froze. “You dose a member of parliament or a town and watch the chaos. Then issue ransom demands and things go downhill from there.”

Moriarty laughed. “Ransom? Oh John, that’s precious. Why bother with that? People will pay to get their hands on this stuff on their own. A true youth serum? I can portion this out, make a forty year old twenty five again. An eighty year old eighteen! They’ll pay willingly, even if I’m put on ‘trial’, just for the public’s relief. And the potential as a weapon! Why kill the enemy when you can turn them into toddlers, then swoop in, interrogate and re-educate, or just leave them to stave in the streets?”

John dropped his spoon into the half-eaten food. “God.”

Moriarty gave him a strange look. “Did you really think I’d tested this on you and Sherlock to pry up government secrets Johny boy? That was just a bit of fun. Even if Sherlock dupes big brother, I’d never trust the details. You know who they say lives there.”

John clenched his small fist around the spoon and continued eating, eyes locked on the floor.

0o0

Sherlock studied the syringe as Lestrade and Mycroft shouted at each other. It was immaterial how long Mycroft had had the cure: John was taken, shouting wouldn’t change that. But the shot was much bigger than the doses of Moriarty’s serum.

“How many yeaws will it give me?” Sherlock spoke, and the two men settled into a shocked silence. It was the first coherent thing he’d said in some time.

“This dose? Four more years. Any more than that at once is dangerous.” Mycroft said. “It’s not just something to age you: there’s vitamins, glucose, and several other things to make sure you grow properly: otherwise we’d have a six year old with the same body mass as a two year old.”

Lestrade nodded. “How long until he’s back to normal?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Not more than one dose in twenty four hours, for safety. It’ll take him nearly that long to age: growing up is far more complicated than the reverse.”

“How convenient.” Lestrade sneered. “Just enough time to keep him out of the game and let John go on suffering.”

“I can’t help John like this.” Sherlock spoke slowly, not letting his voice waver. 

“You can’t, but I can.” Lestrade glared at the eldest Holmes. “Eight days of solid police work may find where Moriarty’s doing this, despite your misgivings.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I hope so: if you did, so much the better. But my teams cannot proceed until they are sure of the location, lest we scare him into acting now.”

“And mine won’t?”

“Inspector, Moriarty regards your team as highly as he does any other government sanctioned body, from special forces to elementary crossing guards.”

Lestrade clamped down on a retort. “I don’t trust you to give him the cure if I’m gone. I will be coming back at night, Mycroft.”

“Do. We’ll be staying here. No more need to stay in the country.” Mycroft’s tone was icy and bright. “He’s my brother. I wouldn’t--”

“You already have!” Lestrade snarled. “Sherlock, if anything happens, you’ll call me, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He could feel a door rattling, deep down. God he wanted John.

To Sherlock’s surprise, Lestrade stooped down and swept him into a hug. “I’m so sorry about everything, Sherlock. I should have believed in you from the start. Maybe none of this would have happened.”

Sherlock threw his arms around the man’s neck, trying not to tremble. “Thank you.”

Mycroft watched the scene, chill running down his spine. The damage was worse than he’d thought. He had to get the treatments started the moment Lestrade was out the door, while something of his brother could still be salvaged.

Something had to be salvageable from this nightmare.


	26. Chapter 26

John finished eating and Moriarty escorted him back to the bedroom, locking it. He didn’t bother to put John into the crib. There wasn’t much in the room: fluorescent lights, a bare tabletop, a small box he recognized from the dilapidated flat Sherlock had been kept in. A toybox.

John sat on it, mind racing. He couldn’t get out of this room. Even if he could, he couldn’t escape the warehouse. Even if he could, how the hell could he get away? His legs were already trembling with the strain of walking to and from the room.

Escape was not an option.

He’d have to rattle Moriarty. Find something, some tell that would...would…

Sherlock hadn’t been able to do anything in over a month. What chance in hell did he have?

‘There’s one crucial difference. He was breaking Sherlock. I’m just here for insurance.’ John realized. ‘He doesn’t care enough to try and break me.’

The indifference. That was the only thing he had that Sherlock didn’t. All it had gotten him was insight into a plan he couldn’t stop. He was caged.

Moriarty wouldn’t expect him to even try and escape. He’s expect obedient despair.

There was the smallest chance it would make him sloppy.

The next time the door opened, he’d dash for it. even a few moments might be enough to crawl into some tiny space the maniac couldn’t reach. Every moment not under his watchful eye would drag things out, keep him from enacting his plan.

Unless he did it right now.

John closed his eyes and tried to remember everything he’d just seen, looking for possible escape routes or hiding spots. He’d have to be prepared.

Just in case.

0o0

Sherlock drowsed under the medicine. Mycroft tucked a quilt around his small form. Rage rocked in his soul. Rage against Moriarty for daring to touch Sherlock, rage against John for making him so damned sentimental, rage against Lestrade for implying he’d sent Sherlock to hell on purpose.

Rage against himself for letting it happen.

He’d never dreamed Moriarty was so far along with the serum. His scientists were playing catch up with the madman.

There was no telling what the lasting mental effects would be.

Sherlock had been broken down to the level of a child. Returning him to his adult body without first reversing those effects…

Mycroft tucked the empty syringe into a case, face carefully blank in case Sherlock should wake. He needed John Watson alive. _Sherlock_ needed John Watson alive. But the world needed him right where he was.

He would have given anything in that moment to change places with Lestrade and go bursting into warehouse after warehouse, a blip on Moriarty’s screen. Anything not to be the damned British government and just an older brother.

He stood, pausing a moment to study Sherlock’s face. By the time he came back it would already begin changing.

He dropped a light kiss on the forehead. “Sleep well.”

Sherlock murmured something, but didn’t wake.


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock walked down the corridor of Mycroft’s home, calling for his brother. He didn’t seem to have grown during his sleep: had the cure been a failure? He couldn’t find the energy to be afraid. He was so very tired. Tired of crying, tired of being terrified, tired of running from place to place and never being safe.

“Mycwoft?” He didn’t hide the speech impediment. Why bother? Mycroft was there the first time round, he knew.

He pushed open a door at random and found himself staring into his mind palace.

Sherlock whirled around. Gone was Mycroft’s home. Just the locked doors of his mind palace.

And footsteps.

He ran, mind racing. He was asleep from the cure. He wouldn’t be able to pull himself out of the mind place, escape the madness wearing Moriarty’s face. It was coming. There would be no salvation, no hiding his wounds behind his grownup face. Just madness.

“Shirley…”

Sherlock dashed into an open door: poisons. The last room he and John unlocked together. He shut the door but couldn’t lock it: it was far out of reach.

Sherlock huddled down, hearing the footsteps. Heavy, heavier than Moriarty was in life. Tears pricked his eyes. Was he really crying? Would Mycroft see the tears and understand? No, never.

“Sherlock!”

That voice was _not_ Moriarty. But it wasn’t real. Sherlock stared as the door swung open. John, adult grown up John stared back at him, eyes wide with worry.

Sherlock pushed back, trying to vanish into the files and folders. Moriarty was wearing John’s face. He’d taken everything, even John’s face.

“Shirley, where are you?”

 _That_ was Moriarty’s voice. Coming from down the hall. Which meant that the thing wearing John’s face was something else entirely. Not John, John was with the real Moriarty, a child, helpless. 

This was something new.

The John-thing rushed into the room and swept Sherlock into his arms. “Are you alright?”

“You aw some facet of my mind, you know how I am.” Sherlock clutched the figure, heart hammering. The other set of footsteps, noticeably lighter than John’s, were getting closer.

“Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t ask.” John-Thing replied, taking him from the room. There, a few steps away was the madness wearing Moriarty’s face. Sherlock buried his face in John-Thing’s jumper, no longer caring what the hell he represented. 

He was as close to safety as the detective would get.

“It’s alright.” John-Thing stroked his hair. “I’m not going to let him hurt you. Never again.”

Sherlock shook his head, but didn’t say anything. If the small scrap of him that was left was about to die, at least he could do it in John’s arms. His broken mind had provided that one comfort.

“How sweet.” The Madness lilted. “One last hurrah before that gentle goodnight, Shirley?”

“Leave him alone.” John growled, not moving away.

“Or what, you’ll kill me?” The Madness scoffed. “I’m just as much a part of him as you. You can’t just wave me off.”

“You’re out of your cell. That doesn’t make you anything special.” John-Thing took a step closer. Sherlock trembled. “No matter what happened.”

“What happened was Sherlock getting beaten and broken. Give him to me.” The Madness hissed. “It’ll be easier. Just give him to me and the pain stops. _All_ of it. Just soothing darkness forever. Wouldn’t that be better than dealing with what’s happened?”

Sherlock clutched the jumper. It almost sounded sweet. Just slip away, let everything that happened go, let it all just...fade into nothing.

But there was John.

John, the real John, not this aspect of his mind wearing his face. John, scared, helpless, alone, just as he had been. With Moriarty. With the monster that had broken him so thoroughly.

Sherlock lifted his head. “No.”

The Madness rocked back, as if slapped. “It doesn’t have to be willing, little freak. I can take you now, with or without this poor excuse for protection at your side.”

“Like hell.” John-Thing’’s voice rumbled, low and fierce. “Like hell you will.”

A door. A door, not nearly as fearsome looking as it once was, but a steel door, heavy locks, chains, everything. It came into view just behind the snarling face of Madness.

“You can’t--”

“He bloody well can. He’s Sherlock Holmes.” John-Thing smiled. “And you? You’re nothing more than a pack of cards.”

The door swung open and the thing went tumbling inside, screaming curses, promises, Sherlock’s name. The door slammed shut, locked.

Sherlock breathed heavily, still trembling. “How…did you do that?”

“We’ll have to open some doors about psychology to find that out.” John-Thing smiled, gentle and easy. “You need to rest a bit first. We’ll work on it when you go back to sleep after the next dose.”

Sherlock cried softly, and the thing holding him wiped the tears away. “I don’t understand.”

“I know. That’s alright.” John sat on a chair that had conveniently appeared in the poison room. “The short of it is there’s a lot left to be done, and it’ll be easier when you get John back. I’ll be here to help until then. Alright?”

“It must be alright. I made you.” Sherlock sniffled.

“That’s right.” John-Thing agreed. “I’ll keep an eye on that door. You get some real sleep. Your body is going to be very tired from all the growing.”

Sherlock nodded, weary beyond words, fading into the safety of his friend’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favorite chapters to write.


	28. Chapter 28

John watched the door, mind racing. He had the bare essentials of a plan, but it was predicated on very specific happenings. If things went the slightest bit awry, he was done for.

Just like a normal day.

He pressed his ear to the metal, still hearing nothing but machines clanking. They were getting ready to dump the stuff into the water supply. It had to be soon. Moriarty had left him hours ago, he had to be getting ready for something big.

John rocked back on his heels every time he heard footsteps. Half the time it sent him to the floor. His balance was practically non-existent. He slumped to a seat after the fifth bump. Listening would not make Moriarty come faster.

0o0o0

Lestrade shook his head as Donovan returned to him. “I know, I know. Nothing, right?”

She nodded. He sent her to relay the useless information to the others. Eight days and nothing. Mycroft knew which warehouse John was kept in. Or at least where he was being moved to the most frequently.

What if John’s vitals stopped? Would he tell anyone about that?

Lestrade’s blood chilled. He would find the monster that did this. And if anything happened to John, he would see Mycroft held responsible.

No matter what.

0o0o0

The door swung open. John managed to get away just before it smacked into his head. He’d fallen asleep at some point. His body tingled from the cold metal.

“Johnny.” Moriarty smiled and held up a syringe. John’s heart quickened.

One chance. 

“Stay away from me.” John stepped back, one two three. No more. Smaller steps than normal, as if his will was breaking. The door behind him was open, oh to just dash through--

Not yet.

“Sorry, we have a schedule to keep.” Moriarty took one step, bridging some of the distance. “Six months today.”

John’s heart sank. Not nearly enough of the stuff. He’d known that. But he’d hoped. “No.”

“Oh come, you won’t vanish just yet.” Moriarty chided. 

He snatched at the boy, and John darted between his legs, one hand raised. The syringe tumbled to the floor. Moriarty hadn’t expected even his light blow. 

John snatched it, depressing the plunger and ran past the fiend.

“Stop!” Moriarty roared, false joviality gone. John skidded under the nearest tank, a space far too small for an adult, empty syringe clutched in hand.

Moriarty spotted his legs vanishing under the tank. “Oh, you are trying my patience, Johnny boy.”

“What else is new?” John grunted, struggling forwards. It was a tight squeeze, even for his tiny body.

“Come out of there and I may let you live.”

John ignored him. They both knew it was a matter of time until Moriarty found some way to get to him. Any threats or bargains would just be for show.

John felt a cool wetness under his fingertips and pulled up short. He wiped his hand on the concrete. A leak. He wasn’t sure if the stuff needed to be injected to work. Wouldn’t do if he lost the last of his motor skills now.

“JOHN!”

He felt the bottom of the vat. It had to be here, improbable as it was, it was regulation…

There. The secondary emergency overflow valve.

John twisted the valve. It refused to turn.

“No.” He choked out. “No, no, come on, please…”

He twisted frantically. A flake of rust fell of.

It was too stiff for his tiny hands to manage.

John let go of the valve. He lay facedown on the floor, tears pricking his eyes. 

Something jigged at the back of his mind. His fingertips tingled.

The puddle.

It was half an inch deep, and fairly wide. John pressed the tip of the needle into the stuff and drew it up. It sat in the tube, dank and murky.

He swallowed hard. No way to know if it would work after being contaminated with whatever was on the floor.

“JOHN!”

He didn’t have any other options. He squirmed forwards, hand clenched.

“I’m coming, you bastard.”


	29. Chapter 29

John stopped short as other voices began yelling. There was running. Something clanked. He saw Moriarty’s shoes shift.

Someone tromped heavily to him. “Boss, we need to go. They’re here.”

Moran. Who was here?

“John is under there. Pry him out, we’ll flip the levers and go.” Moriarty snarled.

“We don’t have time!” Seb said, rough. John watched, eyes wide, as the pairs of shoes danced about. They were _fighting_.

He crawled forward, paying no mind to the concrete scraping across his arms. This was his one shot.

‘No pun intended.’ He snaked one arm forwards, plunging the hypo into the meat of Moriarty’s calf. He pressed the plunger, but Moriarty jumped away with a yell. It clattered to the floor, dribbling fluid.

How much? How much had made it in? Would it even work?

John had no time to ponder these questions: Moran grabbed his arm and hauled him from his hiding spot. John cried out. He dangled from Moran’s grip, crying out in pain.

Moriarty reached for him, eyes wide, teeth bared “You little--”

“John!”

Another cry, deep, much too deep, too much to hope for, not after weeks of this nightmare. John lifted his eyes.

Sherlock flew down a metal staircase, coat billowing behind him.

John let out a choked sob. He hadn’t seen that face since Sherlock vanished to meet with Moriarty almost two months ago. “Sher--”

His cry was cut; Moriarty clamped a massive hand around his throat and squeezed.

“No more of this.” The madman snarled.

John kicked, but couldn’t hope to injure the man. He gasped for breath, but nothing came.

“Drop him!” Lestrade was flying behind Sherlock, gun drawn. People were running everywhere, shouts, screams, gunshots--

“Take one more step and I’ll break his neck.” Moriarty didn’t lift his eyes for John’s face.

Sherlock stopped, pale, eyes huge and frightened. This wasn’t the paragon of emotionless reason he knew. John shuddered. Sherlock may have looked like a grownup, but he was in no way healed.

Then Lestrade was there, gun drawn. “Let John go and I won’t shoot you in the back.”

Moriarty grinned. “Inspector, I hardly think--”

The gasp and stagger was a surprise to everyone but John. The madman dropped him as he went to his knees. John thumped hard onto the concrete, crying out.

Sherlock swooped past the stunned Moran, lifting John into his arms. “John!”

John sucked in a grateful breath, coughing it up instantly. Sherlock backed away from their captors, John clutched in his arms.

John laid his head on Sherlock’s chest, fighting to get his breath back. “I’m...okay.”

Sherlock quivered but said nothing.

John watched the scene unfolding, color streaming back into his vision. It didn’t take long to choke an eighteen month old. He’d been three seconds away from death.

Moriarty was on the ground, screaming. Moran hovered over him, unsure of what to do. Lestrade’s gun was still drawn. Moran didn’t go for the piece holstered at his waist.

“Boss? Boss, can you hear me?” He implored over the screams.

“It was...only...six months!” Moriarty grated, locking his hands onto Moran’s shoulders for a few moments.

“No.” John murmured. “It was from the floor under the vat. And I have no idea how much.”

The madman’s eyes locked on John’s face, shocked. 

Then he was writhing, screaming, incoherent.

Sherlock trembled. John’s stomach roiled. This was all wrong. He should be the one holding Sherlock, not the other way around. His mind was sound. It was just his body that was useless. And Sherlock…

Eight days and thirty years had not undone the damage caused.

“Sherlock.” John implored, drawing the detective’s gaze. “Can we go? You--”

“No.” Sherlock sounded like himself again, if only for a moment. “I need to see this.”

John swallowed and nodded. It wasn’t like he could make Sherlock leave.

Moriarty writhed, screaming, eyes squeezed shut. His face seemed softer: the facial hair vanished.

Moran tried to get him into a sitting position. “God damnit, that shit is concentrated! Jim, where’s the antidote?! Talk to me!”

Moriarty was beyond the point of talking. His face was softer: indeed, it almost seemed to be melting. John clutched Sherlock’s coat. He hadn’t seen what the process looked like. Had Sherlock seen him go through this?

Moran looked at the group clustered over his fallen employer, eyes dry and fierce. “If you let me get the antidote from his stash and I’ll cure Dr. Watson.”

Sherlock’s grip tightened. “We have it already.”

Despair flashed over Moran’s face. 

Lestrade didn’t holster his gun, but he did lower it. “Sebastian Moran. You are under arrest for the kidnapping of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence...”

John tuned him out. Moriarty was visibly smaller now. The sleeves of his suit were edging over his slender hands. His shoes fell off the flailing legs. He was in his preteens and showed no signs of stopping.

John wanted to turn his face. It was horrific. Bones shortened and cracked. Tendons creaked. A small chinks sounded as adult teeth dropped to the cement.

Lestrade trailed off. “Jesus.”

Moran didn’t beg for his bosses life or attempt to get away. He scooped the shrinking bundle into his arms. Moriarty was still screaming, but his limbs were stilling. It hurt too much to move. His cries were getting quieter as well. Either the elixir was almost finished or he was about to vanish.

Lestrade let him hold the madman. There was no point in the cuffs. Moran’s spirit broke the moment the screams petered out.

“It’s not supposed to be that fast.” Moran shifted the clothing, gently pulling off the suit jacket and dress shirt. 

Wrapped in the undershirt was a six-month old infant, terror in its eyes. It clutched at Moran, whimpering.

“My God.” Lestrade swallowed hard. “Is he...does he know what’s happening?”

“He assured me my mind would survive such a transformation.” Sherlock’s voice was hard. “He’s still there.”

The infant turned its face from them, trying desperately not to weep. It made strange chuffing noises.

John buried his face in Sherlock’s coat, desperate not to cry. Everything that had happened, everything he’d been though, it was really over. He was safe and Sherlock…

No. It wasn’t over.

But he was safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a final chapter and an epilogue.


	30. Chapter 30

Sherlock walked to the waiting car, diverging from Moran and Lestrade as soon as they hit the door.

“Sherlock?”

He stiffened. “Yes John.”

“Mycroft has the cure?”

The unasked questions came flooding. Sherlock wavered for a moment. “Yes. We’ll get you started on doses tonight. It will take a week or so to fully restore you.”

John nodded, trembling. “Okay, I--I just...that’s…”

He broke into tears.

Sherlock hurried into the empty backseat. The privacy window was already up. “John? John are you alright? I can get a doctor--”

John shivered miserably, clutching Sherlock. “Don’t go, please, please stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Sherlock forced the words out. “Did he...hurt you?”

John shook his head. “No.”

“Good.”

He let John cry awhile. The soldier had been desperate to stay strong for Sherlock ever since this madness began. He could be the comforter. 

The sobs petered out. John had fallen asleep.

Sherlock turned his face away, thoughts rolling unsteadily. John was all there. Moriarty hadn’t broken him. He was alright.

He kept himself quiet. If he woke John with crying…

John needed sleep. He needed rest before they could begin the treatment.

So much of the last week was lost in a haze. He’d eaten and drank and washed and slept. And grown. And traveled hallways with John-Thing, unlocking doors.

Today he’d been back to normal and Mycroft announced they knew where the warehouse was, where JOHN was, and everything would be alright.

Mycroft hadn’t wanted him going to collect John. Sherlock had leapt at him, ready to strike, ready to do anything to get John away from Moriarty. Mycroft had stepped aside and agreed.

So here he was. Doors open. 

Sherlock held him tight. John was still less broken than he, even in this state. In his mind he was undoubtedly adult, still speaking and reasoning and functioning.

Sherlock had no such luxury. His mind palace was open, but it was too big and too frightening. He was...What the hell was he? He had his files. He had his reasoning. He had everything that made an adult.

So why did he feel like a boy playing at being a man?

John-thing offered answers. ‘You were kidnapped and put through the worst trauma of your life. You’re going to feel helpless and afraid. Let Jonh help. Let your friends help.’

Sherlock hung his head. He didn’t want help. He wanted to go home and solve cases and have everything be like it was before. Nothing had changed. Not really. John would go back to normal and they would go home and everything would be the same forever.

‘No love, it won’t.’ John-Thing’s patient voice chided him. ‘Things have changed. Things will continue to change. If you can understand and accept that, it will help a lot.’

Change. He’d been _changed_. That’s what it came down to. He’d been changed and even with John’s help he might never change back to what he had been.

He looked into the sleeping face of his best friend. Something stirred.

He was changed. But he was still Sherlock Holmes.

And nobody could change that.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Epilogue

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Some months later

0o0

John walked down the street, coffee in one hand. Sherlock hurried ahead of him, eager to get back to the flat and discuss the details Lestrade had given them.

“It’s all a matter of _timing_. The killer couldn’t have made it from the scene of the murder to the telephone in under two minutes. _Accomplices_ , John! That’s what--”

Sherlock’s fingers brushed the door of 221b and he jumped back as if shocked.

John jumped to his side. “Sherlock?”

The detective tried to bury his pain and fear. “Static discharge.”

John tipped his head ever so slightly.

Sherlock took a shuddery breath. “I...thought I heard a noise.”

Ah. John dug his keys out with one hand. “Let me.”

Sherlock didn’t retreat, but stood still as John unlocked the door. Nobody was in the flat. Nobody was _ever_ in the flat. And sometimes he was able to open the door. More and more he just walked through doors without thought. But not all the time. Not enough.

They went in and he continued talking as if nothing had happened. John let him. 

He sat down as Sherlock found his footing and continued. It was interesting of course, but he couldn’t keep his thoughts together. It happened when something triggered Sherlock. This time he thought back to the last week. He’d slept through most of it, waking to eat, sleep, and bathe. Each time he’d been older. 

Each time Sherlock has been at his side.

It was no use reflecting on the month or so in between: the doctors visits, the meetings with soft-spoken doctors who asked them how they felt, how they slept, how they were dealing with things. Sherlock clammed up unless John was there to nudge him along. But things got better. They were eventually set free, back to 221b, Sherlock’s reputation restored by Mycroft’s mysterious machinations.

On the subject of Moriarty, all was mute.

That was fine. John smiled, light and easy as Sherlock found his groove, voice rising with excitement.

He was getting better. _They_ were getting better. 

That was all the mattered. 

0o0

He didn’t need to hear the whispers or see the paperwork. The dosage. The dosage had been high, too high, far too high.

Frozen. The cure not forthcoming, not that he could blame them. Natural aging halted. A stilled heart in the breast of Father Time.

The infant had a thousand-year stare. He’d gone silent after they’d been taken in. Silent to the needle pricks, silent to the inquires, silent to the pleas in the night for some sign, _any_ sign.

Moran sat, Jim in his lap, unblinking in the darkness. He’d wait. He’d always wait.

They had all the time in the world.

0o0

At night when Seb fell into a soldier’s sleep, beyond the reaches of doctors, of clinical smiles and anatomical check ups, there was weeping. It was a small and lonely sound. 

Nobody heard.

Nobody knew.

And nobody ever would.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o


End file.
